


No Medicine But Hope

by dsa_archivist



Category: E.R., due South
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-18
Updated: 1999-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-10 22:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Libertarian genre thriller including "long stretches of my own peculiar take on politics and religion." Fraser & Ray Vecchio investigate attempted assassination, gangs, city corruption & kidnappings, with help from two OCs and Chicago Hope's hospital staff. Cameo appearance by ER.  ORIGINALLY archived May 26, 1996.





	No Medicine But Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE

# NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE 
    
    
    by Nina Smith
    
    Comments are welcome at. 
    
    **Rated R for language and violence.** 
    
    INTRODUCTION
    
    This novella, the first of three parts, needs a LOT of 
    introducing. "No Medicine But Hope" is a Chicago 
    Hope/Due South crossover, partly inspired by the airing of 
    said shows back-to-back for half the season (I sort of let 
    them run together - results follow). It was written in the 
    winter of 1994-1995 and completed shortly after the first 
    run of the Chicago Hope episode "The Quarantine." Both 
    it and its sequels were written entirely as private fantasies 
    for the amusement of my husband and myself; I never expected 
    them to be seen by anyone else, and needless to say, 
    verisimilitude and plausibility were NOT high priorities. 
    Not to mention that my medical knowledge can politely be 
    described as minimal; I ask that slack be cut in this regard. 
    
    The mainspring of the plot is based on a notion of my
    husband's. I had written and begun to submit for possible
    publication a political thriller with a strongly libertarian
    bent, and he had the idea that by doing so I could possibly
    be putting myself in danger: Powerful people might get wind
    of it, be angered or feel threatened by what I had written,
    and attempt to silence me. I dismissed this as the paranoid
    nonsense it was as far as the real world was concerned;
    however, I couldn't dismiss it as a compelling fantasy! And
    here it is.
    
    The story also draws on assorted unpleasant characteristics
    of real-world Chicago, notably its long and inglorious
    history of municipal corruption and its current status as a 
    hotbed of youth gang activity and also as the US capital of 
    ugly antisemitic racial politics. Also included are long 
    stretches of my own peculiar take on politics and religion. 
    Collectivists and atheists, please consider yourselves 
    warned in advance. :)
    
    Notes to all unattributed quotes and untranslated foreign
    phrases follow each part. (Generally I'm not this pedantic, 
    but my husband insisted it would be considerate.) 
    
    DISCLAIMER: Chicago Hope and its characters are the property
    of David E. Kelley; Due South and its are the property of 
    Paul Haggis. Used without permission. No infringement of 
    copyright intended. I'm not getting any money out of this
    anyway. 
    
    I am sincerely grateful to anyone taking the time to read
    this. I love to write (and I hope it shows), but it's a
    lonely and futile pastime without you.
    
    And now, ladies and gentlemen, for your pleasure ...
    
    **NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: I**
    
         Even amid the swirl and fury of the trauma center,
    multiple gunshot wounds bear their own special horror. They
    weren't seen often at Chicago Hope Hospital, and when the
    paramedics rushed the victim in that morning, it was as if
    lightning had struck twice. No one knew who the woman was or
    why she had been shot in the head and chest with a .22-
    caliber pistol and left to die at the street entrance to the
    offices of Penumbra Press; nor did anyone care at the
    moment. The only concern was getting the victim prepared and
    into the operating room in time.
         In the end it went much more easily than anyone had
    feared. Working at the victim's head, Dr. Aaron Shutt
    scrutinized the bared wound. "Practically superficial," he
    observed. "Small-caliber projectile, left parietal lobe
    barely scored, clean exit wound, almost no fragments. This
    is a lucky lady."
         "I'm not sure she'd agree with you after catching two
    bullets. And here's one of them; good thing it's intact. I'd
    hate to see what a hollow-point would have done in this
    heart." With agonizing delicacy, Dr. Jeffrey Geiger eased
    forceps into the chest wound to withdraw the bullet.
    "Basin." As a nurse appeared to accept the slug, he
    commanded, "Save that for the cops."
         "Yes, Doctor." She withdrew the steel bowl of evidence,
    and the operation inched on.
         "Anyone have any idea of whose life we've saved?" asked
    the resident working at Geiger's side.
         "Don't dislocate your arm patting yourself on the back,
    Dr. Carney," the senior surgeon said icily. "Suction."
    Carney reddened above his mask and dared not reply.
         "There shouldn't be any problem answering that
    question; she had plenty of ID on her," Camille Shutt broke
    in, carefully defusing the situation as befitted the chief
    OR nurse. "I think Dr. Watters is taking a look at it. I
    wouldn't mind seeing it myself; it'd be nice to know who
    this is."
         "And that's just the beginning," said Dr. Shutt, taking
    up the thread from his wife. "Not only who she is, but who
    shot her and why. I heard it happened right on Michigan
    Avenue."
         "I heard she'd just stepped out of a limo when it went
    down," Carney added, almost eagerly.
         "No kidding. Well, we're done here." Shutt stepped back
    from the patient as his team wrapped up.
         Geiger grunted. "I love a mystery." He glanced at the
    cardiac monitor. "We got normal sinus rhythm and pressure.
    Let's close her up. Notify Dr. Shutt and myself once she's
    awake."
         "You want to monitor her progress, Doctor?" Camille
    asked.
         "That, and I've got a few questions on the side." With
    that, both senior surgeons stepped from the OR, shedding
    masks and gowns and bloodstained gloves, and were gone.
    
         In the bed, under the light, hands stirred, a bandaged
    head shifted from left to right. Slowly the brown eyes
    opened, struggled to focus on the approaching figures that
    stopped to hover alongside. Two of them - men. Tall, dark,
    clad in white ... no, draped in white lab coats. Doctors, of
    course; there had been the gun, the shots, the pain and then
    the darkness.
         One of them smiled at her. It was a quiet smile,
    tender, confident. Above it deep brown eyes, high forehead,
    raven hair dusted with silver. "Hey," he said softly, his
    hand brushing the edge of the bed.
         His companion also smiled. This one had dark eyes too,
    thinning brown hair in waves, arms crossed over his breast,
    a demeanor proud as an eagle's. "How are we doing?" he
    asked.
         The woman tried to smile back. "_Baruch Hashem_," she
    gasped, then added, "You two are doing great; me, I'm not so
    sure."
         Their smiles widened and the second man said, "Well, if
    you want my considered medical judgment, you look pretty
    good for someone who was shot twice this morning."
         "Thank God, and thank you," she said, beginning to
    gather strength. "Could you tell me where I am? I mean, I
    can see it's a hospital, but if I could trouble you to be
    more specific?"
         The first man laughed gently. "No problem. Welcome to
    Chicago Hope. I'm Dr. Shutt; this is Dr. Geiger."
         "It's a pleasure. 'Hope is the thing with feathers that
    perches in the soul ... '"
         "Emily Dickinson, right?" Shutt probed.
         "Right. Little hermit didn't know times would change.
    Now Hope is the thing with doctors." As they chuckled, she
    yawned, then asked, "Where was I shot?"
         Geiger put it briefly. "In the head and chest. Meaning
    one bullet for each of us."
         "Oh, my God," she gasped. "And I LIVED?"
         "Sure looks like it."
         "Obviously. That's me, never too far out of it to ask a
    stupid question." But worry quivered in her voice. "Shot in
    the head - tell me, Doctor, will there be any - any memory
    deficit, or cognitive disability, or anything like that?"
         Shutt's face beamed reassurance. "Well, unless you were
    on your way to Stockholm to pick up a Nobel Prize before
    this incident, I would guess from the way you're talking
    that you don't have a thing to worry about."
         She relaxed, looking almost beatific. "Oh, _baruch
    Hashem_!" she repeated, even more heartfelt this time. Her
    gaze glowed on the doctors. "All healing ultimately comes
    from the Almighty ... but He chooses magnificent agents."
         Shutt looked proud and sheepish at once; Geiger took it
    without a blink. "Thank you. We'd like to know who paid us
    that compliment."
         "Oh, of course, I'm so sorry. At your service,
    gentlemen: Ruth Lowe. Mother of two, wife of one, _aishet
    chayil manque_, aspiring novelist, and proud possessor of
    possibly the weirdest frame of reference in the continental
    United States."
         As the doctors laughed appreciatively and the woman
    took pride in it, there were two more arrivals at her
    bedside. Neither wore the white coats over their suits. The
    first was shorter than Shutt and Geiger, older too, with the
    elegance of a prince and the air of command to match. His
    neat beard, bald head, and green eyes keen as a panther's
    completed the effect; he was not so much the boss here as
    the master. Two paces behind him, as if in deference, came
    another man. This one was much shorter than the physicians,
    a little younger, and looking disinterested, even
    indifferent, under his tousled brown curls. A closer look,
    though, would reveal the disinterest as a mask; his active
    hazel eyes were missing nothing.
         The older man stopped and smiled to hear the laughter.
    "Are we interrupting something?" he said lightly.
         "Our mysterious patient has a way with words," Geiger
    explained. "Mrs. Lowe, meet Dr. Watters, our chief of staff,
    and Mr. Birch, our legal counsel."
         "Oh dear, I'm not in some sort of trouble, am I?" she
    asked. "Then again, someone just tried to kill me; of course
    I'm in some sort of trouble."
         "An astute observation," Watters began, good humor in
    his tone, "but I can assure you your trouble's not with us.
    You'll have to forgive me, Mrs. Lowe; I took the liberty of
    going through your wallet when you were brought in."
         "Perfectly understandable, sir."
         "You certainly came a long way to end up in here.
    You're from New York?"
         "Yes, sir. And no one ever pointed a gun at me there."
         "And I can't imagine why anyone pointed a gun at you
    here." Watters seated himself on the bed beside her. "The
    police have been notified, of course, and one bullet was
    recovered and saved for evidence."
         "I can imagine where it was recovered from."
         The chief of staff nodded. "We rarely get this kind of
    mystery at Chicago Hope; we deal mostly with the medical
    kind. Perhaps you can help us get a head start on it before
    the police arrive?"
         "In other words," put in the little lawyer, "we'd like
    to know who in Chicago might want you dead."
         She looked up at three expectant doctors and one tense
    attorney. "Truthfully? I have not the slightest clue,
    gentlemen. I know absolutely no one in this entire state,
    and I hadn't been two hours off the plane when it happened!"
         "Maybe you could tell us why you came," Birch
    suggested.
         "Okay. Last year I wrote a book, a trifle really, but
    I'm very proud of it, and I even managed to find an agent
    for it after a while. For about six months I had no word
    from him, then he writes me with big news: Penumbra Press
    here in Chicago LOVES the thing, wants to make it the
    centerpiece of their fall list, and offers me five high
    figures and a twelve-percent royalty! I don't know how much
    any of you know about the publishing industry, but those
    numbers are unprecedented for a first novel by an unknown. I
    was especially surprised that it was Penumbra; from what
    I've seen, their list runs mostly to left-wing policy
    analysis and this self-conscious, artsy, politically correct
    fiction I never bother with. Meanwhile, my book's this
    noisy, libertarian genre thriller.
         "But no way am I questioning their judgment. Through my
    agent, Penumbra invites me to visit here, all expenses on
    them, to discuss the book and the deal. So I fill up the
    freezer, break out the nice clothes, kiss the kids and their
    father goodbye, I'll be home for _Shabbat_, and I'm gone.
         "Plane lands without incident in the Hog Butcher to the
    World, and Penumbra has sent a limousine for me, first time
    I've ever been in one - "
         "You mean since the senior prom?" Geiger broke in
    apropos of nothing.
         "_Yeshivot_ don't have proms, Doctor," Ruth replied, not
    missing a step. "So I'm getting my first look at the City of
    the Big Shoulders, checking to see if it has a nice trim
    waist to match, when the car pulls up in front of this clean
    sterile late-modern high-rise and this is the place. I get
    out and stand for a moment like some silly awestruck
    tourist, wondering when I'm going to wake up from this dream
    and have to change the baby's diaper, when a man - not much
    beyond a boy, really - steps up beside me. For some reason,
    I turn ... and then I see the gun. You know the rest of my
    story better than I."
         Birch considered this briefly. His eyes had not left
    her face for a second. "And you have no idea why he shot
    you?"
         "None whatsoever."
         "You weren't robbed."
         "Thank God. If I hadn't had my insurance card on me,
    paying for your help could get complicated."
         "Don't concern yourself with that," Watters reassured
    her. "It'll be taken care of. Meanwhile, we should all be
    ready for a visit from the police." As the chief of staff
    returned to his feet, he thought of one more question. "Mrs.
    Lowe - you did see his face?"
         "And I will never forget it, sir!"
         "The police will probably be very happy to hear that,"
    Dr. Shutt commented. "I'm going to schedule you for some
    tests later today. If there's anything else we can do for
    you - "
         "Not to overreach, Doctor, but there is: I am utterly
    desperate to call home. I don't want my husband to learn
    about this from Tom Brokaw or someone like that; I'd better
    tell him myself so he doesn't worry. Better yet, so he
    doesn't come here looking to hunt down the shooter."
         "Sounds like a formidable guy," the neurosurgeon said.
         "Really. Yaacov the killer _ger_. His personal motto is
    'Shoot the wounded.' Of course he's been harmless since
    leaving the Army, but he'd welcome a chance not to be. I
    feel very safe walking with him at night." She ran her gaze
    around the four men. "I hate to monopolize so much of your
    time, gentlemen. Aren't there other lives for the saving
    around here?"
         "Listening to you is more fun," Geiger replied, "but I
    do have a double bypass scheduled for," he looked at his
    watch, "right about now."
         "Very well, then. I'll have your property sent here;
    the phone is already hooked up. You will be notified when
    the police arrive." With that, Watters called it to a close.
    "I wish you a very speedy recovery, Mrs. Lowe."
         "Thank you, gentlemen, for everything, and I do mean
    everything."
    
         Shutt seemed reluctant to go. "She's got a great
    attitude," he observed to his friend once they'd left the
    room. "That's always good. I like the religious ones, too;
    they may be a little strange, but usually they're so
    grateful."
         "I've never seen a religious one like her before,"
    replied Geiger. "Never seen anyone like her before,
    actually. I don't know about you, but I've got to read that
    book of hers when it comes out."
         Down the corridor in the opposite direction strode
    Watters and Birch. The attorney gave his head a single shake
    and said, "What a story! Do you believe her?"
         "You see any reason not to?"
         "Not really. Any lie would probably have been a lot
    more plausible - and less complicated." Birch shook his head
    again. "Think about it. Invited halfway across the country
    to talk about publishing her book, she steps off a plane
    into a limo into a murder attempt. Phillip, try and tell me
    the word 'trap' isn't apropos here."
         "You'll get no argument from me. But I still can't see
    any motive." Watters swung along a little faster, Birch
    keeping up.  "Maybe it has something to do with the book."
         "What's it about, the JFK assassination or something?"
    Birch shrugged, fell behind a step, quickly caught up again.
    "Maybe she revealed some unspeakable secret - like Lee
    Harvey Oswald acted alone."
    
         Thirty stories above the gleaming heart of the city,
    the Honorable Alderman Bud Muldrake of Chicago, Illinois,
    looked down upon his domain and screamed in a wordless,
    mindless fury. Finally he stamped away from the window,
    whirled to glare again at the thin figure trembling under
    the brazen chandelier, and roared, "What the FUCK do you
    mean, she's still alive?!" Then, not waiting for an answer,
    "You dumb shit! You goddamn stupid little PRICK! Where the
    fuck did you shoot her, in the fucking ASS or something?"
    Back to the vast window, where he muttered a few more
    obscenities before concluding, "Well, it's not too bad; at
    least the bitch didn't see you."
         The twentyish man under the huge brass light shook from
    the top of his shaven head to the soles of his unlaced black
    high-top sneakers. Gripping the tasseled corners of the Arab
    scarf that flopped over his shoulders, he bit his lip and
    whimpered, "The bitch saw me."
         "WHAT?!" Muldrake pounced toward his desk with
    lightning in his eyes, caught up an ornamental crystal apple
    (by Tiffany; a gift from the former Mayor of New York City)
    and flung it at his agent's head, narrowly missing as the
    young man yelped and ducked. Both the crystal and the
    Italian marble of the floor cracked on contact. "SHIT!" the
    honorable Alderman barked. "Goddamn you little gangbanging
    street pricks, can't do a fucking THING without a goddamn
    babysitter watching you! Now just what the fuck happened
    down there, you stupid shit?"
         "I - I snuck up to her wi' my piece out, but the bitch
    must've heard me - she turned, looked at me and I got
    scared, so I dusted her off real fast, pop in the head and a
    tit, and I RAN. Guess some asshole saw and called 911 - "
         "Get the fuck out of my office, you stupid prick, and I
    ever see you again you a stupid DEAD prick!" The youth
    scuttled out, leaving the other to mutter, "Goddamn little
    asshole, I better make sure one of his homies pops him
    before he thinks of going to the cops ... " Muldrake lowered
    his bulk into his wide leather chair and stabbed the desk
    intercom to life with his middle finger. "Eric! Goddammit,
    Eric, you got to come in here, we got some serious shit
    going down!"
         It cost the Alderman about seventeen minutes of
    fretting and stewing before the new arrival was shown in.
    "The delay was quite unavoidable," explained the tall,
    slender man, without a semiquaver of regret. Declining to
    explain further, he carefully adjusted his silk tie,
    smoothed his Kennedyesque white coiffure, and waited for the
    sweating Muldrake to spit it out.
         Muldrake parodied his gesture, rubbing meaty hands
    across his thin, gray patches of hair. "What are we gonna
    do, Eric? I mean, the writer bitch lived! What the fuck we
    gonna do?"
         "I'm fully aware of the situation, Bud," said the
    other, his cream-complected face undisturbed and his eyes
    the color of steel. "I make it my business to remain on top
    of all relevant projects and operations."
         "Good. Goddammit, sometimes I feel like I don't know
    what the fuck is going on."
         "Then let me inform you." The pale man seated himself
    on a low-slung velvet sofa; even though it left him at least
    six inches lower than Muldrake in his leather throne, there
    was no mistaking who was in command here. "Someone from
    inside the building heard the shots and called 911,
    whereupon an ambulance brought the woman to Chicago Hope
    Hospital - a stroke of luck for her, but most unfortunate
    for you."
         "For ME! Shit, Eric, getting her here to dust her off
    was all YOUR goddamn idea!"
         "And a totally necessary one," came the freezing reply.
    "I told you what kind of danger Ruth Lowe's talent could
    pose in enemy hands. You read those pages I showed you."
         "Yeah, I read 'em. Goddamn, I need a line." Muldrake
    pawed open a desk drawer, withdrew an ornamental mirror and
    a gold box. From the box came a gold blade, a thin gold
    tube, and a vial of gleaming white powder. The other watched
    with only lightly masked scorn as lines of powder were
    poured, cut, and inhaled.
         "Are you quite finished, Alderman?"
         "Yeah. Man, I mean like holy hot shit, the pause that
    refreshes!" As Muldrake clumsily threw his kit back together
    and into the drawer, he babbled happily, "So we gotta finish
    up, right, Eric? Chicago Hope, huh; I hear in that place
    they do all kinds of weird shit. Transplant heads and stuff.
    WEIRD fuckin' shit. Got a guy in there tried to bring some
    old dead bitch back to life with a machine heart or
    something."
         "Coincidentally," said the fair man, "that guy happens
    to be one of the surgeons who saved our dear Mrs. Lowe.
    There was another, too, who attended to her head wound; he
    also has a considerable reputation. Both are rich, of
    course, rich Jews - but you probably figured that out
    yourself already."
         "Bust my balls! How'd you learn all this shit, Eric?"
         A smooth, sharp smile. "You know I make it my business
    to have someone inside every institution in this city that
    receives public money."
         "Oh, yeah."
         Indulgent nodding. "I'd like to be able to say I own a
    staff doctor or a top administrator in that physicians'
    palace, but thanks to that bastard Watters, none of my
    people can get past their selection process. They also have
    a hell of a lawyer on retainer; there hasn't been a single
    crack to jam a discrimination suit through - yet. So far
    I've had to make do with two nurses' aides with sons in the
    Pharaohs and - quite luckily - a few of their security
    personnel."
         "So we get one of them to sneak in and pop her, right?"
         Perfect teeth gleamed in another cool grin. "Oh, Bud,
    Bud, why aim low? I want to try something big, something
    I've been itching to do for years now!"
         "What?" Muldrake's eyes were all gaping pupil.
         "Well, to start, since those doctors were nice enough
    to save her ... we capture her alive. And to show our
    appreciation for what they did, we capture them too."
         "What? Who?"
         "The doctors, you stupid drug-addled gorilla, the
    doctors!"
         Muldrake's face furrowed as if he had to translate from
    a foreign language. "But what the fuck do we do with a
    writer and a coupla doctors? And sure as shit we can't bring
    'em here - "
         "They'll be taken to my North Shore place; you know I've 
    got the right facilities there. Oh, don't look so nervous,
    Bud! Don't tell me you're worried about the police. Between
    your power and mine, they haven't even moved on the shooting
    this morning, and we can see to it that when they DO move,
    it won't even amount to an inconvenience." Slowly he rose
    and approached the Alderman's desk; Muldrake folded a little
    down into his chair, with the other towering over him.
    "Don't you fret about a thing. I'll handle all the planning,
    and take all of tomorrow to set it up so it's sure to go
    right. I'll have to pick the cream of the Pharaohs; they'll
    need floor plans - those are easy to get - and certain
    schedules - those will be tougher. They'll bring their own
    guns." Suddenly he looked down, steel-colored eyes blazing
    into Muldrake's dilated orbs. "This is going to be CLASSIC,
    Muldrake. This will put the fear of hell into every
    arrogant, overpaid bastard in the AMA. And as for what to do
    with them ... just leave that to me!"
    
    TO BE CONTINUED
    
    NOTES
      to all unattributed quotes and foreign phrases
    
    baruch Hashem - Hebrew idiom, best translated as "thank
    God." Hashem, literally "the Name," is the general term of
    reference and address to God outside of formal prayer.
    
    aishet chayil manque - a language mix. "aishet chayil" is the
    Hebrew phrase from Proverbs 31:10 usually translated as
    "woman of valor"; "manque" is a French term meaning "not
    quite" or "just missed."
    
    Shabbat - Hebrew. The Sabbath. aka Saturday. 
    
    "Hog Butcher to the World" - after Carl Sandburg's poem
    "Chicago." (Ditto for "City of the Big Shoulders" below.)
    
    Yeshivot - Jewish religious schools.
    
    Ger - Hebrew. In this context, means "convert."
    
    **NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: II**
    
         As Alan Birch approached the door of Ruth's room, he
    met Camille Shutt coming out. "Morning, Camille; how's Mrs.
    Lowe doing?"
         "Beautifully. She's keeping my nurses in stitches.
    EVERYONE wants to read that book. We're all going to miss
    her when she leaves."
         "Any idea when that will be?"
         "Possibly as soon as tomorrow, if Aaron and Jeffrey
    approve a transfer."
         "Oh, so the police have already spoken to her - I
    hadn't heard."
         Camille suddenly looked confused. "I don't think they
    have, Alan. No, I'm quite sure, the police haven't been here
    yet."
         "Is that so. Then I really should talk to her."
         The head nurse's smile returned. "You'll enjoy the
    experience."
         "Anyone in there with her now?"
         "Nurse Atkisson. Have fun, Alan; I've got to go."
         Poking his head in the doorway, Birch listened a
    moment. The patient was saying, "I do regret the loss of
    that patch of my hair. I know it's a renewable resource, and
    I keep it covered in public anyway, but right now I feel as
    if the French Resistance had been punishing me for
    collaboration and suddenly changed their mind." A burble of
    female laughter answered her, interrupted by the attorney's
    knock on the door. "Come in," came Ruth's voice. "Oh, good
    morning, Mr. Birch."
         A red-haired RN looked up as he came in, then back to
    the patient. "I'll be back later, Mrs. Lowe."
         "Thanks." Ruth turned her attention to the new arrival.
    "What can I do for you, sir?"
         "I thought we could just talk a bit, if you feel up to
    it."
         "Well ... sure." She made a sheepish face. "You'll have
    to forgive my bad manners; I get so nervous at the prospect
    of getting entangled in the legal system, and you just
    happen to be its local representative."
         "I know. Sometimes I get lonely, surrounded by the
    health care system." He smiled, was gratified to see her
    smile back, then settled into the chair by her bed and
    began. "So how are things at home?"
         "Thank God, all well. My mother is having a good time
    with the children, and I think I was able to talk my husband
    out of packing up the .30-.30 and coming here to find the
    perpetrator. Everyone misses me. It looks like I might be
    transferred to a hospital close to home, or even released
    entirely in a few days."
         "You're looking forward to that."
         "I am ... but I don't want to go before seeing the
    police, and they seem to be taking their own sweet time
    about it! I'm also suspicious about my publisher; they
    haven't returned my calls. You'd think there'd be more
    curiosity about this."
         "I would; that's pretty much why I'm here now. You
    understand that it's my job to minimize this hospital's
    legal exposure, and we are a bit concerned about your case."
         "Oh, you have nothing to fear from me!" She waved a
    hand airily, dismissing all worries. "I dislike litigation
    on principle, and more than that, you saved my life here."
         Birch nodded in acknowledgment. "It is strange, though,
    that the cops haven't come. We reported the shooting Monday
    morning as soon as you were stabilized."
         "Perhaps they're too busy dealing with a major crime
    wave or upsurge?"
         "Not that I've heard of lately. And a case like yours
    doesn't come along very often, if you know what I mean."
         "I'm not sure. Please elaborate. Important, I'm not."
         "But unusual, this is. Most shootings go down in a
    violent atmosphere, at least in this city."
         "In mine, too."
         "Right." He leaned forward, caught up in the puzzle.
    "And usually the motive is clear: robbery, an argument turns
    ugly, drugs involved, something like that. And when you
    don't have a motive, what you have is usually a stray bullet
    hitting some innocent bystander. None of that seems to hold
    here."
         "Except the innocent part. You're right, this IS
    bizarre. The guy was stalking me, in broad daylight, in what
    looked to me like a beautiful part of town."
         "Trust me, it is a beautiful part of town." Birch went
    silent, considering, and at length said, "Why don't you tell
    me what he looked like?"
         "I hate to admit this ... but he looked like my worst
    nightmare. Black teenager, shaven head, with the band of his
    underwear showing above his pants, and - I loved this
    detail, believe me - he was wearing a _keffiyeh_."
         "A what?"
         "A _keffiyeh_ - one of those checkered tablecloth-
    looking Palestinian Arab scarves. He had it wrapped around
    his shoulders. Does that help?"
         "It does. He's in the Pharaohs."
         "The Pharaohs?"
         "A local street gang. Notoriously violent, very big in
    crack dealing and drive-by shootings. Those scarves are
    their trademark." The attorney's eyes went worried. "Why
    would THEY want to kill you?"
         "Oh, God. Do I even want to know?"
         Birch rose quickly. "If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Lowe, I
    think I ought to call the police and share this information.
    It might get them to take this seriously."
         But he got no further before the noise erupted outside:
    thundering feet, obscene barks of command, shrieks of terror
    from the nurses' station, the cold click of a pistol bolt.
    Birch bolted toward the door to see. "My God, what is going
    on - "
         "Back off, asshole!" Birch stumbled back at the point
    of a gun - a blue-steel 9-mm in the hand of a hairless
    youth. A _keffiyeh_ swirled around the invader's neck and
    across the lower portion of his face. Behind him were two
    more identical gunmen; one had his weapon jammed to the
    temple of a shaking, pale Nurse Maggie Atkisson. Behind the
    roaring, cursing thugs, the shrieks and tumult in the
    corridor escalated.
         Birch looked into the face of the terrified nurse, and
    his spine stiffened. He stood between Ruth Lowe's bed and
    the boiling mass of the gang, his eyes locked on the
    hostage, and somehow said, untrembling, "Let her go."
         "I said BACK OFF, you little cracker bastard!" the
    leader snarled. "Lemme at that goddamn bed!" His finger
    tightened on the trigger; behind him Nurse Atkisson
    screamed and saved Birch's life - the thug whirled half
    around to bellow, "Shut the fuck up, bitch!" The gun hand
    dropped to the right, the bullet striking Birch under the
    chest, tearing cleanly through his liver. As he fell, he
    heard two women's cries cutting through shock and pain.
         The lead goon stepped over his victim to touch the
    barrel of his gun against Ruth's forehead. Behind him, the
    one holding the nurse rumbled, "All right, bitch, pull
    those tubes out!" But petrified with fear, she only
    whimpered, then screamed as he yanked out a fistful of her 
    red hair. "Pull all that doctor shit out, bitch, NOW!"
         Under the gun, patient's and nurse's eyes met. Ruth,
    silent and white in terror, managed the smallest nod, trying
    to say with her eyes, *It's all right, do it, save your
    life.* Trembling, Atkisson stammered, "Yes, yes, all right,
    just please - please give me some room." They drew away from
    the bed, guns readied and eyes wary, watching as her
    training took over and steady hands began detaching Ruth
    from drips and monitors.
         As the last needle was withdrawn a thug pounced,
    grabbing Atkisson and flinging her back to stumble and fall
    over Birch's prone, bleeding body. "Now! Get the bitch and
    run!" The others obeyed, dragging the wounded patient from
    her bed; as she was flung heavily over a bony shoulder
    draped in the Arab colors, Ruth let out a howl of agony
    before unconsciousness rescued her from the pain.
    
         Over in the radiology department, Jeffrey Geiger
    watched coolly as one of his residents hung up a series of
    chest films. "So what do you make of it, Dr. Geiger?" she
    asked.
         "That isn't the issue, Dr. Smythe; I know what to make
    of it. I need to know what YOU see, before I tell you where
    to look." He watched her wince, and casually leaned against
    an equipment shelf to consider her answer.
         At that moment the door crashed open, spilling three
    armed men into the room. Their shaven skulls gleamed in the
    pale glow of the viewing wall; the black metal of their guns
    sucked up the light. From behind his masking _keffiyeh_, one
    roared, "Where's Geiger?"
         As Dr. Smythe gasped in horror and shrank back,
    silhouetted on the bright glass, Geiger stepped between her
    and the invaders. "I'm Dr. Geiger," he said calmly. "What
    the hell is this?"
         A second youth waved his gun in his right hand, a pair
    of handcuffs in his left. "You coming with us, doc!" he
    leered.
         Undisturbed, the surgeon crossed his arms and fixed
    them with a look of utter contempt. "Excuse me, but just who
    do you think you are, and what are you doing here?"
         The first thug stamped forward, thrusting his weapon
    almost into Geiger's face. "Shut your fucking mouth and come
    easy, you ugly kike bastard - "
         His voice cut off in a choke as Geiger's hands locked
    around his throat, thumbs jammed into the walnut of his
    Adam's-apple. The others charged; the black mass of a pistol
    crashed against the doctor's head. Pain and light exploded
    behind Geiger's eyes; stunned, he released his grip and
    staggered away, easy prey for the one who seized his wrists,
    twisted them behind his back and locked the handcuffs on.
    Then they were upon him, half leading and half dragging him
    away, leaving Smythe behind to scream helplessly.
    
         Pandemonium came shrieking and howling down the
    corridor from the neurosurgery ward; Camille Shutt stopped
    in her tracks, listening in horror to a too-familiar voice
    protesting, drowned by harsher voices, bodies scuffling, the
    awful click of closing handcuffs, of readying guns ... She
    raced toward the tumult. There was Daniel Nyland from the
    ER, trying to calm and hold a knot of terrified people, and
    just beyond him she saw the horror - that man, his hands
    shackled behind him, surrounded by three masked gunmen even
    now hustling him toward the stairwell ... "Aaron!" Camille
    cried, launching herself suicidally towards Dr. Shutt and
    his abductors; as a pistol came up, Dr. Nyland caught her,
    swung himself between the woman and the gun, prayed that
    the thug wouldn't think him worth the bullet.
         "Camille?" Shutt twisted around in his captors' grip,
    saw her; cold sweat dewed his ashen face. "Camille, I love
    you!"
         "Oh, dear God - AARON!" But the exit gaped open,
    swallowing men and guns, and Aaron Shutt was gone.
    
         Detective Ray Vecchio couldn't stop shaking his head.
    "Why the hell are they giving this case to ME?" he
    muttered to his companion. "A high-profile shooting? An
    out-of-towner? On Michigan Avenue? In broad daylight? They
    barely want me tracing lost dogs ... "
         Beside him, Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP, strode
    along nonchalantly. "Did Leftenant Welsh tell you anything
    specific about how you're expected to proceed?"
         "Yeah. Specific. He said, quote, get this goddamn out-
    of-towner back out of town ASAP or it's your badge,
    unquote. Real helpful. Thanks, Welsh." He gave the car
    door an opening yank that would have pulled it off into
    the hand of a stronger man.
         "That's odd," the handsome Canadian remarked as he
    slid into the car beside Vecchio. "One wouldn't expect
    hostility to be directed at the victim, particularly a
    visitor."
         "Yeah, well, welcome to Chicago, we got our own
    inimitable style of greeting tourists." The aging vehicle
    snarled to life.
         Fraser shrugged and straightened his hat. "Have you
    ever been to Chicago Hope Hospital before?"
         "No, lucky me. I hate hospitals. Smell of
    formaldehyde and nasty nurses. Well, here goes."
    
         "What the hell happened here?" Vecchio wondered out
    loud as the two officers crossed the main threshold. A din
    of scared and angry voices rang everywhere, security
    personnel darted back and forth like bees in summer,
    confused and apprehensive people were four deep at the
    main desk. "I mean, hospitals aren't your most laid-back
    places, but this is pushing it - "
         "Hey, are you the police?"
         Fraser and Vecchio turned toward the fiery soprano
    voice. The woman was impressively tall, more impressively
    furious, her red-gold hair in a tangle around a face hard
    with indignation. She held the hand of a crying boy about
    six years old. "He is," Fraser said helpfully, gesturing
    toward his companion.
         She appraised Fraser and his uniform, kept herself 
    from smiling, and began snarling at Vecchio. "You sure 
    took your time! Like they say: call for a cop or a pizza, 
    see which comes first - we called you clowns on MONDAY!"
         "Listen, ma'am, this is the - "
         She didn't stop for him. "I've got a lot more to say,
    you creep, but first I have to help little Jason here find
    his mommy. He ran away and got lost when the gun got
    pointed at him." She glared death at the detective. "He
    was here to visit his granddad." A toss of her hair, the
    choke of tears held back. "And then there's a lot more
    scared people to help. Meanwhile the chief of staff wants
    to give you a piece of his mind - and I hope he tears your
    big stupid ears off!" Suddenly her face was thrust almost
    into Vecchio's. "If you'd been doing your job, you stupid
    asses, they'd be safe, but God only knows where they are
    now!" She fought more tears, then swiftly was off, child
    in tow.
         "What was THAT about? Better yet, what is all this
    about?" Vecchio didn't know which direction to head in.
    "Something tells me we're gonna be talking about a lot
    more than a shooting ... "
         "Are you from the police?"
         "Uh-oh, here we go again." Vecchio looked up wearily
    to see the owner of the iron voice; it was an iron man,
    compact and authoritative, with green fire in his eyes. He
    was attended by a small honor guard of hospital personnel,
    and wore an expression Vecchio had seen before: on the
    face of a man whose wife had been raped. "Yeah, I'm from
    the police. Detective Ray Vecchio - "
         "I'm Dr. Phillip Watters, chief of staff of this
    hospital, and I have something to show you!" He clamped a
    hand onto the detective's shoulder; his grip was iron too.
         "Hey, let go of the jacket!"
         Watters added an iron push to the iron grip. "Come."
    The other had little choice but to go along, and Fraser
    fell politely into step with them. So far the Mountie had
    barely uttered a word.
         The uncomfortable procession ended in the viewing
    gallery above an operating room. Vecchio rubbed his aching
    shoulder as Watters fairly threw him aside. Holding his
    hat in both hands, Fraser peered down at the surgery in
    process. Vecchio only cast a glance before groaning, "Oh
    jeez, that is gross!"
         "LOOK," commanded Watters, and Vecchio didn't dare
    disobey. "Do you see the patient's face, Detective?"
         "Sort of."
         "The patient on that table happens to be this
    hospital's attorney, a man of extraordinary skill and
    loyalty, and my virtual right hand. He was shot through
    the abdomen with a highly illegal automatic pistol less
    than a hour ago while trying to protect a nurse taken
    hostage by invading street gang members. Fortunately, with
    Dr. Thurmond working, he's in very good hands."
         "Oh." Vecchio looked for the surgeon. "You mean that
    little old gnome?"
         Crimson rose in Watters' face. "'That little old
    gnome' is possibly the finest general surgeon in the
    entire United States. If you are ever shot - which given
    your general air of utter incompetence seems highly likely
    - pray you receive attention even half as good as his."
    The physician turned to his attendants. "Get this idiot
    out of my sight and out of my hospital - I don't care if
    he's the last cop in the state, help like this we don't
    need!"
         Fraser stepped forward, a placating hand extended.
    "Dr. Watters," he began, "please let me apologize for
    Detective Vecchio's unfortunate choice of words. I also
    want to apologize in behalf of the international law
    enforcement community for whatever terrible thing happened
    here in your hospital."
         Watters' glance was cold and dubious, but he held his
    peace. His eyes softened as he turned his gaze back down
    towards the operation. As if feeling his colleague's eyes,
    Arthur Thurmond looked up to meet them. Between surgical
    mask and hood, the old man's keen gaze was weary but
    encouraging, speaking in the wordless language of hope.
    Watters responded with a sigh of relief: "Alan's safe."
         "Thank goodness," Fraser echoed sincerely. The chief 
    of staff turned to him, a bit of grudging respect showing.
    Seizing the moment, the Canadian officer asked, "Could you
    tell us what happened here, Doctor?"
         "We'll talk in my office." Watters led the way, all
    his attention on Fraser. Vecchio followed along like a
    calf trailing the herd. "I don't think I caught your
    name."
         "Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted
    Police."
         "I see. Are you attached to the consulate?"
         "Yes, I am."
         "They say the Mounties always get their man. We could
    use results like that, after what happened today."
         "Which was, Doctor?"
         By now they had arrived at Watters' office. Vecchio
    had to move quickly to keep the door from closing in his
    face. Once everyone had settled down amid black leather
    and chrome, Watters wasted no words. "Chicago Hope first
    notified the police - " here an ugly glare at Vecchio
    "when a patient was brought in Monday morning with gunshot
    wounds to the head and chest. There was no response until
    now. Meanwhile, about an hour ago three groups of - I
    guess 'youths' is the fashionable term - somehow bypassed
    our security and abducted three people from this hospital
    at gunpoint. One was the patient I mentioned; the others
    were two of my best surgeons. Both of those surgeons,
    incidentally, had operated on that patient. Furthermore,
    as you saw, our attorney, Alan Birch, was shot and I don't
    know how many visitors, patients, and hospital personnel
    were frightened out of their wits."
         Vecchio was writing all this down. "I get it, doc. If
    I could talk to some of the witnesses?"
         Watters' lips formed a thin hard line within his
    beard, but he nodded. "You can talk to Mr. Birch in
    Recovery. I'll have the others meet you in the committee
    room."
    
         For once things were slow in the emergency room of
    Cook County General Hospital, and as in every other such
    institution across the city, there was only one topic of
    discussion among the staff. "You've all heard?" chief
    resident Dr. Mark Greene was saying to some colleagues.
    "Two staff doctors and a patient at Chicago Hope -
    kidnapped. At gunpoint."
         "Yeah, I heard," replied a weary Dr. Susan Lewis,
    sounding bored. "They think it was some street gang that
    did it." She yawned. "Better there than here."
         "You got that right," said Dr. Peter Benton, a dash
    of relish in his voice. He slouched in his chair like a
    house cat.
         "WHAT?" Greene turned to the surgical resident with
    horror on his face. "Peter, Susan, are you nuts? This is a
    catastrophe!"
         Behind Greene, John Carter's curiosity finally
    overcame his trepidation, and he entered the room to ask,
    "Why, Dr. Greene?"
         "Yes, why?" demanded Benton, coming erect in his
    seat. "Why don't you tell our eager med student there why
    we should get all wet-eyed over a couple of Chicago Hope's
    overpaid, undertrained prima donnas? It's about time real
    life broke in at that place!"
         Greene's eyes narrowed. "Dr. Benton, that is
    appalling. Don't you see what this means - not just for
    Chicago Hope, but for us too, for every hospital and
    doctor in this city?"
         Lewis' fatigue was forgotten; she too came to
    attention to ask, "What are you getting at, Mark?"
         Greene found a chair, landed in it heavily. "The
    patient they abducted had been treated for gunshot wounds
    by the two doctors who were taken with her. This may have
    been a case of the gang coming to finish the job AND
    deciding to take revenge on the people who stopped them
    the first time."
         Benton sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward. "So if
    you would be so kind as to enlighten us, Doctor: What in
    hell has any of this to do with us?"
         Greene's voice was a dagger. "Have you ever taken a
    bullet out of someone, Doctor? Sewn up a knife-slash?
    Given aid and comfort to an abused spouse?"
         "All the time," Benton snapped. "We all do. They
    don't do half as much of it at Chicago Hope - "
         Suddenly shaken, Lewis cut him off. "I - I think I
    see Mark's point."
         "Yes." Greene nodded as he turned to her. "Until now
    the gangs and the thugs have been content to send us their
    victims and leave us alone to do our job. But if they've
    decided to widen their net - to send a message to every
    doctor and nurse, paramedic and social worker in Chicago
    that helping their victims, undoing their dirty work will
    no longer be tolerated ... well, I guess even you, Peter,
    can see the implications! The next time some poor guy is
    brought into the ER after a drive-by shooting, just what
    are you going to do?" The chief resident rose to his feet.
    "As for me, I'm changing nothing. But I remind all of you
    that I have a wife and child."
         As Greene stepped out, John Carter looked after him
    with wide, worried eyes. The student found himself
    wondering: what had become of the poor battered girl he'd
    attended to that morning, who'd claimed that her boyfriend
    had beaten her? What if the brute came back seeking
    vengeance? Here was yet another little detail of his
    education that he couldn't share with his parents. He
    looked beseechingly over at Dr. Lewis, but she was lost in
    her own reverie. With his shoulders a bit more slumped
    than usual, Carter stepped out in Greene's footsteps and
    returned to work.
    
         "Jesus," Dr. Carney exclaimed to a scattering of
    fellow residents, "Geiger kidnapped! What with everyone
    he's pissed off, it was only a matter of time."
         "You should've seen him," said Dr. Smythe. "I just
    told everything to that cop - how Geiger grabbed one of
    those guys by the throat and damn near killed him."
         "Fit of panic?"
         "No, the guy had called him a 'kike bastard'."
         "Oh, wow." Carney considered this for a moment. "That
    wasn't too smart."
         "They didn't look too smart. Just street scum. If
    they didn't have guns, nobody would ever look at them
    twice."
         "That's probably why they got the guns." The ghost of
    a smile floated over Carney's face. "I hate to admit this,
    but it almost seems like hard justice on Geiger."
         The door of the on-call room swung slowly open to
    pass an exhausted Dr. Nyland. "Not justice," he groaned to
    Carney. "Not justice. They took Dr. Shutt, too."
         "Aaron Shutt?" gasped Carney. "That pussycat? Why him?" 
         Nyland pushed sweat-slick dark hair out of his eyes. "I 
    don't know, but I saw it all. Just finished telling a cop."
         Smythe rubbed her temple. "I heard they also took
    that patient with the gunshot wounds - the one Geiger and
    Shutt operated on. What if that's it?"
         Carney went white. "Oh, Christ ... I assisted in that
    operation! What if they come back?"
         Wiping away more perspiration with one hand, Nyland
    waved away Carney's panic with the other. "You don't have
    to worry; they aren't coming back." His head sank into his
    hands. "None of them will be coming back."
    
         At the window of Watters' office, Nurse Camille Shutt
    gazed out into the gathering night. The police were gone,
    her shift was long over, but she hadn't the energy to
    leave. "What now, Phillip?" she asked softly.
         "I don't know," Phillip Watters answered, just as
    softly.
         She turned to look at him as he came up behind her,
    their reflections dim in the glass of the window. "Do you
    think they'll send a ransom demand?"
         Watters could not answer. How could he share with her
    this terrible instinct, this certainty that Aaron and
    Jeffrey were in mortal danger, that their abductors wanted
    not money but blood? That an innocent woman with a young
    family a thousand miles away was the heart of this mystery - 
    a heart soon to be stilled? Gently he touched her shoulder. 
    "Please, Camille, it's late. Let me take you home."
    
    TO BE CONTINUED
    
    **NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: III**
    
         Prodded by the guns, Aaron Shutt and Jeffrey Geiger
    half-stumbled out of the back of the black van. They had
    been forced below the hospital, into a dark corner of the
    vast parking garage, where the vehicle had been lurking,
    waiting for them and for the limp, insensate Ruth Lowe. The
    ride had been too fast, too long; it was impossible not to
    worry about her. A quiver of fear ran through the
    neurosurgeon as he thought about the shaking she'd suffered
    on the floor of the van; he remembered how he'd pleaded with
    the Pharaohs to release his and Geiger's manacled hands, to
    let them care for their patient. All it had gotten him was a
    slap in the face and a run of ugly verbal abuse.
         Now they had arrived at - where? At wherever their
    captors wanted. They emerged onto a gravel drive before the
    portico of an immense house, a clean-lined, asymmetrical,
    modern affair, set in parklike grounds obviously far from
    the heart of the city. Not far away could be heard the
    lapping of the lake.
         "Move," grunted one of the armed men surrounding them,
    jabbing his pistol into Geiger's back.
         "Watch that thing!" the physician snarled back, moving
    toward the house. He cast a glance back at his friend and at
    his patient. Shutt was coming slowly behind him, still in
    handcuffs like Geiger himself, also with a weapon against
    his back; Ruth remained unconscious, and a gunman bore her
    over his shoulder. At least they were all still alive - so
    far. And the door of the great house was swinging open to
    take them.
         Once inside, neither man bothered to gape at the lavish
    interior; they were too used to luxury, and too indignant,
    to be impressed. Silently they let themselves be led down a
    long corridor, to emerge into dim light and the presence of
    the enemy.
         The wide, high-vaulted room had its heavy velvet
    curtains drawn as if to hide shame inside. The carpets,
    though thick and soft, were colored the rust of old blood,
    and the heavy, blocklike furniture was upholstered in black.
    Amid all this darkness stood a few more of the bald street
    soldiers in their Arab scarves, attending upon two men who
    were seated in black armchairs, waiting. "Welcome,
    gentlemen," said the fairer and thinner of the two, "I trust
    that we need no introduction."
         Geiger rose to the bait at once. "No, you don't, but I
    definitely want an introduction to your decorator, just in
    case I need a stage design for an all-star revival of
    MARAT/SADE. In the meantime, just what the hell are we doing
    here?"
         The pale, slender man laughed - not a pleasant laugh.
    "You're all my informants told me and more, Dr. Geiger! And
    I've been waiting for this opportunity for - "
         "Maybe you didn't hear me. I'll ask again: Why are we
    here?"
         The other man, heavy and slow, lumbered to his feet and
    over to the prisoner. "We'll ask the questions, asshole! Do
    you know who I am?"
         "Yeah, I do. You're that Alderman Whatsisname,
    Muldrake, whom I've had the honor of never voting for.
    What's going on here, a bill just passed saying kidnapping
    isn't a crime for fat politicians?"
         Muldrake's face darkened while Shutt's paled, but
    Muldrake's companion laughed again. "Relax, Bud, I'll handle
    this." Now he rose to approach Geiger. "And who am I,
    Doctor?" When Geiger looked lightning at him and did not
    answer, the man only turned toward the other physician.
    "Perhaps you know me, Dr. Shutt?"
         Shutt sighed and gave in. "I've seen your picture.
    Pentecost, isn't it?"
         "Quite right. Eric Pentecost, chairman of the Excelsior
    Foundation. You know our work?"
         "Sort of," Shutt answered warily.
         Pentecost's face softened, although Geiger thought he
    could still detect a cunning glint in the gaze directed at
    his colleague. "Come, Doctor, don't hold back. I give you
    permission to speak freely. What do you think of Excelsior?"
    Still no reply. "I really want to know, Dr. Shutt." An edge
    of command had crept into the voice.
         Now the neurosurgeon shrugged and responded. "I can't
    figure it out," he began. "You're all over the map. You
    tried to take Chicago Hope to court in class action suits
    both for animal experimentation and for NOT participating in
    a fetal tissue research project. How inconsistent can you
    get?"
         "Not at all. Excelsior's position is - never stated in
    public in so many words, of course, but we're among friends
    - is that, with the world facing crises of human
    overpopulation and animal extinction, human life at any
    stage is more expendable for scientific or any other
    purposes. We're trying to help establish a precedent."
         Now Geiger spoke again, voice venomous. "You are sick."
         "But you're in no position to cure me, Doctor,"
    Pentecost replied cheerfully. He turned to address the
    Pharaoh still holding the limp form of Ruth Lowe. "Don't be
    stupid, boy, you can put her down now!" As he obediently
    approached a couch, the goon was addressed again. "No, no,
    on the floor! The Jew bitch isn't here to be pampered."
         "You had her shot," Shutt accused calmly, in spite of a
    rage that brought him close to trembling. "Why?"
         "Why did it take you so long to deduce that?" Pentecost
    needled him. "After all, this isn't brain surgery." He
    tittered at his own joke; Muldrake guffawed. Pentecost then
    resumed. "Let me explain. It's not widely known that
    Penumbra Press is owned by the Excelsior Foundation; it's
    even less known that I personally review a number of the
    more interesting manuscripts it receives. When this young
    lady's showed up, it was sent to me at once, and I read it
    through in a single night."
         "It must've been pretty bad for you to want to kill
    her," Geiger commented.
         "On the contrary. If it had been bad, I'd never have
    seen it. It was excellent ... and that's why I decided she
    must die. I personally extended a contract offer to bring
    her to me, and also dispatched one of these fine young men
    you see around you. With a gun."
         Shutt shook his head. "But I still don't understand."
         "This novel was GOOD, Doctor, a potential best-seller,
    possibly even a major film. And it eloquently expressed some
    of the most dangerous ideas in the air. Fortunately, the
    dissemination of such ideas had been generally limited in
    recent decades ... but another successful popular
    articulation of them could reach millions and undo years of
    Excelsior's work."
         "So why not just reject the book and not publish it?
    Why kill her, for God's sake?" A note of desperation cracked
    in Shutt's voice.
         "What if some other publisher picked it up? No, I
    couldn't risk that." Pentecost turned, paced the dark
    carpet. "Every year my foundation disburses millions to
    progressive causes everywhere, trying to dismantle this
    cancerous society before it's too late! Through all this,
    many of my closest allies have been in the culture
    industries, educating the masses through entertainment. But
    now, with those ranters on the radio, and there are some
    books, too, and a few of the movie stars now openly
    supporting the other side, and our grip may even be slipping
    on a couple of television shows ... and suddenly a new
    literary voice shows up, with serious ability, only working
    for the enemy! There was no question of what had to be
    done."
         "Oh, this is great." Geiger's words dripped scorn. "The
    Excelsior Foundation - you're the big anti-censorship
    cheerleaders. Every time some bunch of parents complains
    about their kids' schoolbooks, you're there to call them
    book-burning Nazis. But here comes a writer YOU don't like,
    and you're judge, jury, and especially executioner!"
         "How dare you!" Pentecost whirled on the doctor in
    fury. "This isn't censorship, it's preemptive self-defense!
    She could do irreparable harm to the cause with her crap
    about liberty and virtue! Damn you both, can't you see what
    I'm trying to do here?" The steely eyes were hot; color had
    risen in the pale, angular face. "Not just me and Excelsior,
    but hundreds of groups, thousands of people, the cream of
    the elite. We're using the power of the state to undo the
    mistakes of the past, all of them! Mark my words, there are 
    no defeats in the battle for true equality, only delayed 
    successes; it's just a matter of time before we establish 
    a system so perfectly designed that no one will need her 
    goddamned liberty and virtue!" He directed a deadly glare 
    at the woman's motionless body.
         Shutt rolled his eyes. "They already tried that, Mr.
    Pentecost; it was called the Soviet Union. Didn't work too
    well, as I recall."
         "Be quiet!" growled Pentecost. "You damn doctors think
    you're so clever. You know that in a society without stress
    and exploitation you'd all be out of business - no more sick
    people to extort money from. We'll deal with you greedy
    bastards in good time. The health-care system WILL be
    reformed - forcing all of you under direct government
    control will be the first step."
         "Yeah!" Alderman Muldrake now enthusiastically joined
    in. "Out in the street, everyone knows how you Jew doctors
    invented AIDS, gave it to kids in those measles shots to
    destroy the community!" Around him, the scarved goons were
    nodding. "That's right!" Muldrake agreed with himself. "You
    won't be strutting around in your white coats with your big
    hooked noses in the air for much longer. And in the
    meantime, there's this writer bitch to take care of ... " He
    sauntered over to Ruth, stood above her supine form, prodded
    at her with his shoe -
         "Don't do that!" Shutt protested. "If she starts
    bleeding again in her head or chest, she'll die!"
         Muldrake laughed. "Didn't you hear Eric? That's the
    idea!" He considered the unconscious captive. "Bleeding in
    her chest, eh? It's a hell of a chest." He raised a heavy
    foot over her bosom. "One good stomp ought to do it ... "
         "My God, NO!" cried the neurosurgeon, lunging at
    Muldrake; two of his Pharaoh guards seized his bound arms
    and easily held him back.
         Geiger glanced quickly around. His own hands were
    shackled as well. There were at least a dozen of the
    keffiyeh-draped thugs, and as many feet between himself and
    Muldrake. Pentecost was also watching intently, a small cold
    smile on his lips. The heart surgeon felt hatred boiling in
    his viscera - and suddenly his answer came to him.
         "That's right, asshole!" he snarled at the Alderman.
    "Go ahead, kick her good and hard, watch her die ... but
    remember that's my patient, and I don't like it when anyone
    damages my work." Muldrake had stopped and lowered the foot,
    watching him; they were all watching him. Good. "And also
    remember that unless you've got your own canteen from the
    Fountain of Youth, Alderman, you're going to need a doctor
    someday. One of OUR colleagues ... and we look out for our
    own. Keep that in mind when you're lying on that cold steel
    gurney on your way to the OR, when the anesthesiologist
    places the mask over your face, what you did to Jeffrey
    Geiger and Aaron Shutt's patient ... and wonder if you'll
    ever wake up!" Now Geiger ran his gaze around the room
    again. Pentecost's expression was unchanged ... but
    Muldrake's eyes were wide and fearful, and his lips
    trembled. Some of the gang kids looked pretty shaken. Geiger
    nodded his satisfaction. "That's right. Don't ever mess with
    the men in the white coats."
         Shutt carefully kept admiration from showing on his
    face. *Jeffrey Geiger, MD,* he thought, *you fear nothing.*
         The quaking Muldrake looked helplessly to Pentecost for
    guidance. That one nodded. "It's all right, Bud, we can
    spare her for now." Calmly he issued his orders to his
    goons. "Take them down to the holding cell."
         Two of them obediently approached Ruth, but Shutt's
    bark stopped them. "Don't touch her, you stupid oafs; don't
    even think of touching her!" With bovine eyes they looked
    blankly at Shutt. "We're doctors," he explained hotly, "we
    know how to handle injured people."
         "Again, it's all right," said Pentecost, an odd
    satisfaction on his face. "Release their hands."
         The fetters came off, leaving the two free to approach
    their patient and ascertain how safe it was to move her. All
    the while Pentecost watched intently, and as the two
    carefully raised Ruth from the floor, he spoke to them once
    more. "Incidentally, gentlemen, don't think for a moment
    that you and your woman owe your continued existence to
    anything other than me. That blow to her chest has probably
    only been postponed, and as for you two, there's always room
    at the bottom of the lake for a couple of chained bodies."
    To the Pharaohs: "Take them away."
    
         "I don't BELIEVE this," Ray Vecchio groaned, "I don't
    believe any of it! No backup, no uniforms on the scene, no
    help at all! I had to take every damn witness statement
    myself, not to mention all the flak from that mean little
    doctor Watters - promise me, if I'm ever sick or shot, leave
    me in the gutter but don't send me to Chicago Hope!" He
    picked up a pencil, dropped it back to his desk with a
    clatter, and looked helplessly at Constable Fraser. "So what
    do we do now, Benny?"
         As always, the Mountie remained unruffled, with Vecchio
    wondering how he pulled it off. "I understand that
    kidnapping is a federal crime in the United States in most
    instances. The logical next step is to contact the FBI."
         "Which Welsh specifically told me NOT to do. Said the
    higher-ups would take care of it." Another toss of the
    pencil. "Look at what we've got here. The Pharaohs take a
    break from hustling crack, sticking up stores and blowing
    away their fellow thugs to raid the fanciest hospital in
    town. They leave with what, money or drugs? Nope, a couple
    of big-shot surgeons and one of their patients - some woman
    from New York who was shot by some other Pharaoh right after
    riding in from O'Hare. And the department just doesn't seem
    to give a damn! What the hell is going on?"
         "Correct me if you think I'm wrong, Ray, but my
    impression is not so much that the department is
    uninterested as that a conscious decision has been made not
    to go all out on this case."
         "Then they're not afraid of being surrounded by scared
    angry doctors real soon."
         "They must be more afraid of something else. Something
    more formidable." Fraser went silent a moment, thinking. "If
    you ask me, this case can't possibly begin and end with the
    Pharaohs. They must be working for someone - someone
    powerful, who doesn't want to be known."
         Vecchio rolled his eyes at the loose ceiling tiles.
    "You know what I think? The victims would've been a lot
    luckier if they'd simply disappeared."
         "Why, Ray?"
         "Because then the case would go to Missing Persons, and
    Lieutenant McAuliffe would have it. And he'd find them. The
    higher-ups could tell him to lay off, and Ray McAuliffe
    would just tell 'em to go piss up a rope and send his team
    out to comb the city." Vecchio sighed. "It's not like
    McAuliffe is Mother Theresa or something. I'm sure he can be
    bought. It's just that there's not enough money in the world
    to meet his price."
         "A good man."
         "A good cop. With a squad of good cops under him."
         "Are you Detective Vecchio?"
         The unexpected voice snapped them both to attention. It
    belonged to a tall, slender man in his thirties, his mouth
    set hard within a neat blond beard and his blue eyes
    electric under his black military beret. "Yeah, I'm
    Vecchio," that one answered. "Who wants to know?"
         The man strode over, moving like a denim-clad cougar.
    "Yaacov Lowe. I'm just in from New York City. When I learned
    that my wife had been shot, I flew in to surprise her, but
    when I got to the hospital, they told me she'd been
    kidnapped! I came here. You're the detective on the case?"
         "Yeah - "
         "SO WHERE THE HELL IS MY WIFE?!"
         Fraser rose, trying to calm the stranger. "Mr. Lowe,
    let me assure you that - "
         Lowe looked at him suspiciously and cut him off. "And
    since when do the Canadian Mounties have jurisdiction in
    Illinois?"
         "They don't; he's just trying to help." Now Vecchio was
    standing. "Look, pal, I'm doing all I can. It's not just
    your wife that's gone, and I've got no backup on this case
    ... "
         "You do now."
         "Huh?"
         "I want to help with the investigation. Yes, I know
    what you're going to say, and I don't want to hear it! I
    left two little children in New York waiting for me to bring
    their mother back, and I'm not going to let them down."
         Vecchio groaned. "Listen, Mr. Lowe, I appreciate your
    feelings about this, but you can't just barge in and join an
    official police investigation!"
         "What about him?" Lowe indicated the Mountie.
         "He's a lawman. He's got skills that make him valuable
    on a case like this."
         "Fine. I'm a former US Army cavalry scout and heavy
    weapons specialist. Good enough credentials for you?"
         Surprise jerked Vecchio's eyebrows up. "They still ride
    horses in the Army?"
         "It's mechanized cavalry, you ignoramus; we ride
    helicopters. Now I know I've got to get in on this, because
    if my Ruth's safety is up to you, I'll never see her again!"
         Vecchio looked haplessly at Fraser, who was appraising
    the new arrival with keen, admiring eyes. "Ray," the
    Canadian officer said at last, "I think Mr. Lowe would be
    quite an asset to the investigation, especially considering
    the lack of department assistance."
         Lowe smiled. "Thank you, Mister - ?"
         "Constable Benton Fraser, at your service. Welcome to
    our little _ad hoc_ team, Mr. Lowe." He presented his hand.
         Lowe took it. "It'll be a pleasure, Constable. For one
    thing, I haven't been out hunting since my conversion - and
    I've never been out hunting men."
         "Oh, boy." Vecchio found himself checking around for
    quick exits, just in case.
    
         "Go figure," Shutt observed. "Of all people, the
    professional compassion-monger Eric Pentecost - a murderer."
         "Our murderer, Aaron, if we can't get out of here,"
    Geiger reminded him. The heart surgeon leaned heavily
    against the bars of their prison, first facing the empty
    corridor, then turning to look at his friend. Shutt was
    taking off his lab coat and folding it small; gently he
    eased the resulting pad under Ruth Lowe's head, then he sat
    next to her on the icy stone floor, his back against the
    wall. "How's she doing?" Geiger asked softly.
         "Impossible to be sure. I think she'll be okay, but
    only if she doesn't hemorrhage. If she does ... " Shutt
    paused, "we'll lose her."
         Geiger crossed the cell, bent over the motionless body.
    "Let me look." Swift, sure hands examined Ruth. A touch at
    her throat to feel her pulse: the pale skin was cool and
    damp. "Cold." He shed his own lab coat, cast it over the
    thin hospital gown, and tucked it around her. "But she
    should be all right."
         "Let's hope she remains stable." The neurosurgeon
    gently passed his fingertips over her forehead, then looked
    up at Geiger. "How's your head?"
         Geiger touched the bruise the Pharaoh's blow had left
    on his temple. "It's nothing." The voice went bitter. "What
    wouldn't I give to put a few like it on that wacko
    Pentecost!"
         "Uh, Jeffrey ... " his friend began carefully, "that's
    what I want to talk to you about."
         "What? You want first crack at the bastard?"
         "Please don't joke, Jeffrey, not now! Look, I'm not
    denying that your performance upstairs was magnificent; it
    was. You probably saved Mrs. Lowe's life, at least for now.
    But you are treading terribly close to the edge - "
         Geiger's eyes blazed with scorn. "What would you have
    me do, Aaron? Crawl and scrape and beg for mercy? Say they
    can do as they like to you and her if they'd only let me
    go?"
         "I don't mean that!" Shutt lowered his head in
    frustration. "Listen to me. Those men are not the hospital
    board, or the bioethics committee, or some insurance company
    - they are a couple of warped, sadistic killers. And we are
    at their mercy."
         "Like I don't know that?"
         "Please!" Shutt groaned. "Jeffrey, I'm not trying to
    make a coward of you; no one could ever do that. But
    antagonizing them, especially Pentecost, is suicidal!"
         Geiger gave a derisive snort. "I know optimism is good
    and healthy in a doctor. But seriously, Aaron, you don't
    really expect to leave this place alive?"
         "You're probably right." Shutt had been looking at the
    unyielding stone of the floor, but now he met the other's
    eyes. "But you saw Pentecost; you heard him. To someone like
    that, your courage and pride are blood to a shark! You don't
    fear him, and he wants you to ... and I'm afraid of what he
    might do."
         Another snort. "You of all people should know that
    after what I've gone through, nothing and no one could ever
    make me suffer again."
         "You're wrong." As Shutt rose and came to Geiger's
    side, the edge of concern in his voice grew keener. "You're
    still human, only flesh and blood, and I don't want that
    scorpion trying to strip you of your dignity." He could
    barely force out words. "You're my best friend, Jeffrey, and
    I've seen you in enough pain for one lifetime."
         For about a minute Geiger said nothing, but only stared
    between the bars, avoiding his companion's face. When he
    finally spoke, it was almost too softly. "You don't have to
    worry about me. I'm just another arrogant son of a bitch to
    him, not worth torturing. Think of yourself." Here he turned
    to study the other. "Now we know Pentecost's filthy little
    secret - but even without it, what is he? Just a blow-dried,
    hypocritical poverty pimp, talking about love and compassion
    while working to destroy what little hope ordinary people
    have left. What do you think he'll do to someone like you -
    someone decent and loving - in his power? No, let me
    finish!" he insisted when Shutt tried to reply. "You know
    disease and suffering, Aaron, but you don't know evil! And
    you don't know what evil does to anything good and pure it
    can touch ... "
         Geiger cut himself off, turning to the unexpected sound
    of sobbing. "She's awake," Shutt said, crossing the cell in
    two quick strides to kneel at Ruth Lowe's side. "Mrs. Lowe,
    can you hear me? It's Dr. Shutt."
         "Yes. I've been hearing you both for a little while."
    Her teary voice had the guilty tone of a confession. "I
    didn't mean to disturb you."
         "Don't apologize," said Geiger, coming nearer and
    standing above them. "How do you feel?"
         "Cold, weak; otherwise not too bad." She pulled
    Geiger's lab coat closer around her and turned damp eyes to
    him. "Dr. Geiger, where are we? And why?"
         The heart surgeon crouched beside her. He managed half
    a smile as he said, "As long as we're sharing cramped
    quarters, let's put it on a first-name basis. I'm Jeffrey,
    and he's Aaron. We're unwilling guests of the man who had
    you shot: a very powerful local sociopath named Eric
    Pentecost."
         "Oh, dear God!" Was her face ashen from blood loss, or
    from fear? "What's going to become of us?"
         Shutt volunteered for the awful duty; he dropped his
    gaze a moment before replying, then his dark eyes met hers.
    His voice was even, clinical, without tremor. "You're to die
    of your wounds, most likely through induced hemorrhaging in
    your chest. Jeffrey and I will probably be drowned in the
    lake."
         A single soft moan escaped Ruth's lips, followed by a
    moment's silence as she closed her eyes, squeezing tears
    from their corners. Then she said quietly, "Bearing
    shattering news to the doomed is a big part of your job,
    isn't it?"
         She could not see how his face begged forgiveness. His
    hand curled around hers. "I'm sorry."
         Hearing movement, Geiger rose and returned to the bars,
    looking down the gray corridor. "Someone's coming."
    
    TO BE CONTINUED
    **NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: IV**
    
         Yaacov Lowe thought over what the detective had told
    him. "So my wife and her doctors were taken by thugs from
    one of your local street gangs. Which one?"
         "They're called the Pharaohs. They shave their heads
    and wear those ratty Palestinian dishtowel things." Vecchio
    checked his notes. "According to a lawyer your wife spoke to
    at the hospital, she said the guy who shot her matched the
    same description." He ran a hand through slick hair. "The
    guy who shot him did too."
         "I see. Well, the next move is obvious."
         "Not to me," grunted Vecchio. "How 'bout you, Fraser?"
    The Mountie shrugged noncomittally. "So what you got in
    mind?"
         "We hit the streets, find a Pharaoh, and make him
    talk."
         "'Make him talk'? Are you nuts? How much do you think a
    cop can get away with?"
         Lowe smiled coolly. "As much as he's ready to. But
    before we begin, we'd all better prepare. Don't plan to show
    your badge, Detective. And as for you, Constable, you should
    first go home and change into civvies; in that uniform you
    look like a gallon of tomato juice." Vecchio chuckled as
    Fraser looked down with a small frown at his scarlet dress
    uniform, and Lowe went on. "We'll meet at my hotel so I can
    pick up my weapons."
         "WEAPONS?! Just what the hell are you trying to do,
    Lowe?"
         The young veteran fixed him with the stare of a hunting
    beast. "I am trying to rescue my wife and two innocent
    doctors. From what you've told me, some big shot in this
    town doesn't want them rescued. Your own police department
    is standing square in the way. You can stay within your
    piddly regulations if you want, but I'm willing to do
    whatever it takes."
         Even though he shook his head, Fraser kept his voice
    calm and nonconfrontational. "Your concern for your wife is
    understandable, Mr. Lowe, but the law is paramount - "
         "The law of God is paramount," Lowe interrupted,
    removing his black beret to reveal the black suede _kippah_
    pinned to his golden hair. "And that law states that all
    other laws, God's and man's, can be suspended to save
    innocent life. And that freeing captives is the entire
    community's responsibility. And that a man has to place his
    wife's welfare ahead of his own. Should I go on?"
         "I think you've made your point," Fraser granted.
         "Good. Just one question: Are you with me? Because if
    you, Constable, are willing to abandon those victims for an
    abstract principle, and you, Detective, are willing to let
    your department be used to serve well-connected criminals,
    I'm ready to go it alone. Again: Are you with me?"
         The others exchanged a look. Vecchio threw his hands
    up, and Fraser turned to answer. "Yes, Mr. Lowe, we're with
    you."
         He extended a hand to the Canadian. "It's Yaacov."
         "Why do I keep letting him get me into these things?"
    groaned Vecchio, head falling into his hands.
    
         At a hospital bedside, Detective Stacy Halmora reached
    for the hand of her wounded lover. "Thank God you're going
    to be all right, Alan."
         "Thank God." Alan Birch echoed her, then looked
    pensively into space. "You know, I always loved them, the
    doctors ... and now I owe them my life. Arthur Thurmond
    saved me - me, 'the eel'!" His eyes returned to her face,
    studied the fine features in their soft frame of red curls.
    "How do I repay him, Stacy?"
         She smiled, squeezed his hand a little closer. "By
    remembering that you caught that bullet because you were
    trying to protect an innocent nurse from the Pharaohs." The
    smile faded as her face grew earnest. "If you had cowered in
    the corner they'd never have touched you. You told me your
    job is to defend this hospital, its people - you went way
    beyond the call of duty on this one, Alan."
         He turned away. "Anyone else would have done the same."
         The glorious hair glimmered as she shook her head. "Not
    true. I'm a cop, remember; I see people facing violence
    every day, and you know what? Most folks would let the sky
    fall before they'd seriously risk breaking a toenail. But
    you put your life on the line for that girl, because she's
    part of this hospital." The detective's smile returned.
    "Maybe you weren't able to be a doctor, Alan, but you just
    might have made a hell of a cop."
         He flashed a smile back at her, but it was thin and
    self-deprecating. "You're too sweet, Stacy. Sure, I tried to
    protect Chicago Hope ... and I failed."
         "Nurse Atkisson is all right," she reminded him.
         "I didn't save her; the Pharaohs spared her. But they
    took Ruth Lowe, Jeffrey and Aaron, God knows where; people
    who were here during the attack are lining up to sue us; and
    look at me!"
         "I am looking at you," she replied, "and I like what I
    see."
         Birch sighed lightly. "I'm so happy you're here ... and
    I'm even happier that you're on this case."
         Her eyebrows suddenly knit in puzzlement. "I'm not on
    the case, Alan. I came to visit you on my own time."
         "You're not? Well, then, who is?"
         Now she began to look worried. "I asked to be assigned
    to it, and was denied on account of personal interest - our
    relationship. All very well -until I heard that the primary
    on this case is Detective Vecchio!"
         "Is he good?"
         "He's a moron! I know Ray Vecchio, and he couldn't
    track a bleeding elephant in the snow. I don't know what the
    brass could be thinking - "
         But the attorney's mind had plunged ahead. "First Ruth
    Lowe is shot by a Pharaoh; we call the cops and they don't
    respond until it's too late. The same gang openly attacks
    the city's premier hospital, three people are abducted, and
    a single detective with a lousy reputation is put on the
    case ... Stacy, this is not good."
         "It is suspicious." There was silence for a moment.
    "What are you going to do, Alan?"
         His face, though pale after his wounding and surgery,
    was resolute. "First you're going to help me with a little
    research, and then ... please don't take this personally,
    Stacy, it has nothing to do with you, but your department
    and the city may be facing a lawsuit that'll put them in
    mind of the Great Fire!"
         Unexpectedly, Halmora smiled. "Give 'em hell, Alan."
    
         "You can give this guy all the benefit of the doubt you
    want," Vecchio declared, looking out the window of his 1971
    Buick, "but I think he is stark raving out of his gourd. You
    watch; he's gonna come out of that hotel carrying a howitzer
    and two tac-nukes!"
         "Yaacov already told us what he has, Ray," Fraser
    explained patiently. "Just a double-barrelled shotgun with
    two-trigger action and a lever-action .30-.30."
         "Yeah, and what's he doing with them this far from
    home?"
         "He explained that too: He likes target shooting, and
    always checks the local ranges when he travels."
         "Yeah, really. Nobody but a Mountie would believe that
    one. Why do you trust this crazy guy, Fraser?"
         "Well, for one thing," Fraser stroked the head of the
    pet that shared the back seat with him, "Diefenbaker likes
    him."
         "Oh, yeah, and HIS judgment is impeccable."
         The Canadian officer nodded. "Actually, Ray, wolves are
    first-rate judges of character. You'd be surprised - "
         "You bet I would. Face it, Benny, this guy is trouble.
    He's obviously planning to kill anyone and anyTHING that
    gets in the way - I feel like I'm teaming up with some
    undocumented serial killer!"
         Fraser's voice shifted into its instructional tone.
    "I'm not surprised that you misunderstand him. It's a simple
    matter of a wide cultural rift - "
         "This isn't gonna be about the Inuit or the Mohawk
    again, is it? Because let me remind you, this guy happens to
    be Jewish."
         "Not that kind of cultural rift," continued the
    unflappable Mountie. "I'm talking about an even wider rift:
    the one between the police and the military."
         "Huh?"
         "You and I are police officers, Ray; to us, this is the
    investigation of a triple abduction. Yaacov Lowe was a
    soldier, and to him, this is a search-and-rescue mission.
    And a rather personal search-and-rescue mission at that."
         "Yeah, really. Never get between a woman and her
    husband, especially if he's the type who likes to carry
    rifles cross-country. There's Rambo now." Yaacov Lowe came
    out of the hotel, wearing jeans, a plaid flannel shirt,
    running shoes, and a brown leather jacket, crowned with the
    black beret. In his arms he bore a plastic case, long and
    flat, sealed with two locks. "No wonder you like him,"
    Vecchio observed; "you two see the same tailor on your way
    to the backwoods." Fraser looked down at his own jeans,
    flannel shirt, and beat-up brown leather as the other let
    himself into the front passenger seat, cradling the gun case
    on his lap. In the back, the white wolf Diefenbaker greeted
    him with a single robust bark.
         "Sorry to keep you waiting," Lowe began.
         "Yeah, no problem," Vecchio muttered. "But do me a
    favor, Lowe, and stow that thing in the trunk for now,
    okay?"
    
         Down the bare corridor toward the cell and the captives
    came the even tread of an unaccompanied man. Eric Pentecost
    came before them, clad in a casual white silk shirt,
    tailored jeans, and cowboy boots, an easy cool smile on his
    lips. "Well, my friends: What do you think of my guest
    accommodations?"
         "They stink," declared Jeffrey Geiger, glaring between
    the bars at his captor. "Now would you mind telling us when
    your little joke is over and we can leave?"
         "That's easy enough," Pentecost chuckled. "Never, I'm
    afraid. You're mine now, especially the lovely Ruth - may I
    call you Ruth?" She closed her eyes, could not answer. "Such
    poor manners. Perhaps we shall speak later."
         "You want to speak to someone, you bastard?" growled
    Geiger. "Leave her the hell alone, come here and speak to
    me!" He beckoned between the bars to the enemy.
         "Now, now, Dr. Geiger, do you take me for a fool?"
    Pentecost chuckled. "I'm not about to come within reach of
    your million-dollar surgeon's fingers! The hands that mend
    can also rend; I'm well aware of that."
         "You think I have the only hands that can hurt you?
    You've screwed with the wrong profession, Pentecost, and you
    won't be able to hide behind your foundation money forever!"
         Pentecost smirked, plainly unimpressed. "Don't
    overreach yourself. It would be a fatal mistake to assume
    that I'm as superstitious as the illiterate apes who do my
    bidding; white coats and postgraduate degrees don't sway me
    at all, and I personally had a lot more to do with spreading
    AIDS than any Jewish doctor."
         Aaron Shutt's expression mingled curiosity and dread.
    "You MEAN that?"
         The slender, elegant man before them seemed to swell
    with pride. "Don't you remember years ago, when the plague
    first began to spread, the city was going to close the gay
    bars and sex clubs as public health hazards?"
         "Yes, I remember," the neurosurgeon answered slowly.
    Geiger also nodded.
         "My foundation was there to keep the places open, my
    best lawyers arguing for human rights - especially the right
    of the queers to infect each other in hordes. We didn't use
    those words, of course." His laughter was low, and awful to
    hear. "The queers got their rights, their playgrounds stayed
    open, and they died in double handfuls. Every one of them
    put yet another strain on your bloodsucking, exploitative
    health-care system and brought it a notch closer to
    collapse, and every one also gives the militant faggots 
    another martyr to use in their war against the bourgeois
    family - a war close to being won. A huge return on so small
    an investment."
         "My God," Shutt gasped. Beside him, Ruth could not
    suppress a whimper; he placed a comforting arm around her
    and felt her shivering with cold and horror.
         For a moment Geiger was speechless with astonishment,
    then he put words to it: "You're evil."
         "Oh, how thoroughly old-fashioned!" Pentecost jeered.
    "Bringing up obsolete moral categories is not helpful,
    Doctor. You men of science are supposed to label me insane,
    aren't you?"
         "I'm familiar with insanity," Geiger replied, intensity
    straining his voice. "Insanity is confusion, grief, turmoil,
    need; insanity is helplessly watching the world crumble
    around you. You'll never know anything so innocent as
    insanity!"
         Under the perfectly arranged silver hair, the metal-
    colored eyes were amused and sinister. "Then don't you think
    you're making a dangerous miscalculation by speaking to me
    in such a tone while you, your colleague and your precious
    patient are in my power, Dr. Geiger?"
         "No. Because you'd be merciless whether I kissed your
    ass or not. Can you look me in the eye and say otherwise?"
         Pentecost smiled, and in the smile was genuine respect.
    "No, I cannot. You are a man of rare perception."
         Forgotten for a moment, the other captives listened and
    watched. Spellbound, Ruth murmured softly, almost inaudibly;
    Shutt turned to hear her: "For he keeps the Lord's watch in
    the night against the adversary ... For he is of the tribe
    of Tiger."
         "What?" he whispered, mystified, to her.
         "Old poem - a different Jeoffrey," she explained; then
    fear cracked her voice - "Hashem protect him!"
         Ashamed of his silence, Shutt leaned close to her to
    breathe "Excuse me" into her ear before rising, leaving her
    side and coming to the bars beside his friend. "Don't play
    with us anymore," he said calmly. "Upstairs you sentenced us
    all to death. When are you going to get it over with?"
         "You were in no danger during our initial meeting, Dr.
    Shutt. That was entirely for the benefit of my audience. The
    illustrious Alderman Muldrake is as useful a buffoon as ever
    I've used, but I do have to keep him happy so he'll transmit
    my orders to those subhuman Pharaohs. They themselves have
    to be kept impressed too. My plans are a bit more elaborate
    than my tools suspect, and you are integral to those plans."
         "That puts us back at square one. What do you want with
    us, Pentecost?" Somehow Shutt still kept his voice and eyes
    level.
         "First, I want to thank you and your remarkable
    associate for saving this dear lady's life."
         "It was you who tried to kill her!" Geiger reminded him
    ferociously.
         "True. And I realize that was a mistake. She has far
    more entertainment potential alive - here in my hands." Now
    Pentecost looked beyond the doctors, at the woman lying at
    the back of the cell. "Rise, Ruth. Rise and come to me."
         "Forget it!" snapped Geiger. "She's recovering from two
    gunshot wounds, heart and brain surgery, and a lot of
    manhandling by your pet goons! Ruth, stay where you are."
         "Don't interfere, Geiger," Pentecost rumbled
    dangerously, color rising in his neck, "or it could go very
    ill with you."
         Ruth's voice was placating. "Please, Jeffrey, I'll be
    all right! All I need is a hand up." Shutt came to her side
    to provide it, walking her gently to the bars, where she
    stood wearily, wrapped in her hospital gown and Geiger's lab
    coat. She put a hand to one bar to support herself, and
    raised her eyes to those of her captor. Something helped her
    to hold that poisonous stare and to speak. "If it's me you
    want, then please let my doctors go."
         "How very noble of you. But I must refuse; I need them
    as much as I want you. And I do want you very much."
         Now her gaze fell. "I am not beautiful."
         "No, you are not, and there's little to be done about
    that. Nor are you compliant, servile, weak, or stupid ...
    but that can be changed a bit more easily." He snickered.
    "Wouldn't you like to know how?"
         She fought the fear, kept most of it from her face.
    "Why are you doing this, Mr. Pentecost? What have I done to
    you?"
         "I read that manuscript of yours, Ruth. I know your
    ambition and your talent - and your intention to use that
    talent against the goals I've worked toward all my life. I
    can't permit that; there have been just too many defeats
    recently, and I won't let the other side acquire another
    fighter in you!"
         "I'm no crusader, and I know nothing about your work.
    I'm only trying to amuse - "
         "You'll amuse ME, that's certain. It's time that
    ambition like yours was punished on principle; who are you
    to aspire to more than the humblest and most oppressed of
    us?" He glared at the physicians to either side of her. "Who
    are any of you to put on airs, to pull your way up the
    ladder? You hot-shot surgeons, what are you but lucky -
    lucky to be born Jewish and slide your way into the Jew-
    dominated medical cabal! Lucky enough to prey on the ill 
    and helpless!"
         Geiger couldn't take anymore. "Shut up, you ignorant
    fascist son of a bitch! Lucky? It took Aaron and me ten
    years of study and six figures of debt even to enter our
    specialties, and now we save the lives of those people you
    say we prey on!"
         "Spare me, Dr. Geiger," Pentecost sneered. "I can't
    even count the times I've heard that kind of self-serving
    bilge from children of the ruling class."
         "Oh, yeah, we're children of the ruling class," Shutt
    mocked. "While you, on the other hand, were born into the
    oppression of a billion-dollar fortune. Must have been hard
    work, being sole heir of the family money."     Pentecost's eyes blazed
    like meteors on collision course. "At least a rare few of us care about
    the poor and
    oppressed, Dr. Shutt. Emotionally and spiritually, I'm one
    of the poor, and I use my wealth to help dismantle this
    failed system and replace it with true equality."
         "Of course," Ruth declared, a current of strength
    flowing through her voice. "Equality of wretchedness,
    dependence, and constraint."
         "SEE? See, you obnoxious libertarian bitch? That's just
    what I'm talking about!" He was almost foaming at the lips.
    "You like hierarchies, my ambitious Jew friends? You like
    ruling classes? Well, I've helped to create one in the
    Pharaohs! All that was needed was the critical mass of
    fatherless boys. They had to be taught to hate the world
    around them; to feel entitled to anything they could grab;
    to despise reason, love, and self-control ... and then they
    had to be set loose on the streets, opposed only by a police
    force too hamstrung to stop them! Now the Pharaohs, and the
    other gangs like them, are the true rulers of the cities,
    roving and feeding at will on those who would presume to be
    their betters! We progressives have taken the most wretched
    of society's victims and made them society's masters."
         And to everyone's amazement, Ruth almost smiled.
    "Everything that rises must converge," she observed.
         Pentecost let his mouth gape in equivalent amazement,
    and in pleasure. "Well! You read Teilhard, too?"
         "Hell no. Flannery O'Connor."
         The mouth clicked shut, the gaze darkened. "I WAS right
    about you," Pentecost said softly. "But you won't be any
    kind of threat for much longer." Leaving those words hanging
    before them, he was gone.
         Geiger looked at the writer. "Could you tell me what
    the hell that wacko is talking about? You too, for that
    matter?"
         But with the enemy gone, she seemed to deflate,
    strength running out of her, her form gone limp against the
    bars; both doctors moved to support her, then lower her back
    to the cold floor. Even so, she tried to reply. "It's
    complex - a silly mystical theory and a great, great short
    story ... I'm sorry, Jeffrey," she gasped, "but literary
    arguments are messy, and under these circumstances,
    pointless. I wish I could say I'll explain later ... but it
    doesn't look as if there'll be a later."
         "Don't worry about it," Geiger answered gently.
    "There'll be lots of later after we're out of here, and you
    can explain it then. Meanwhile," and he leaned in closer,
    "don't let that son of a bitch or anyone else tell you
    you're not beautiful."
    
    TO BE CONTINUED
    
    NOTES
    
    kippah - Hebrew equivalent of the Yiddish "yarmulke"; itty
    bitty cap worn by observant Jewish males.
    
    "For he keeps the Lord's watch ... " - from "Jubilate
    Agno," by Christopher Smart.
    **NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: V**
    
         The night was falling fast over the great city H.G.
    Wells had called "a dark smear under the sky." Ray Vecchio's
    green Riviera roved slowly through the streets of the South
    Side; keen eyes of men and beast sought the signs of shaven
    head and Arab scarf. "This area doesn't look any different
    from Bed-Stuy or the South Bronx back home," Yaacov Lowe
    rumbled scornfully. Then his tone changed, shivered a
    little; "God, the thought of Ruth in a place like this ... "
         "Hasn't she ever been in your South Bronx?" asked
    Vecchio tartly.
         "Only riding through it in a closed train. Do you think
    I'd let her walk such streets?"
         "Man, you mean you can tell your wife what to do?"
         "Not exactly, but she takes good advice. I take hers
    when it's good. Like when she called me after the shooting,
    told me everything was okay and that I should just wait for
    her to come home."
         "You didn't take that advice," Benton Fraser observed.
         "Right. It wasn't good." Lowe went quiet a moment,
    tracking the motion of a passing youth; he didn't wear the
    marks of the Pharaohs, so they let him pass. "Wives will
    always tell you not to worry," the civilian declared, "but
    they don't understand some important things about the world.
    What makes women good wives and mothers - love and trust and
    tenderness - also leaves them naked to the scum and evil out
    there. That's where we come in; they give us their love and
    support, and we return our strength and protection ...
    There's one of those bastards now!"
         All eyes locked on the slim, dark figure gliding under
    the streetlights, his head gleaming, the tassels of a large
    scarf fluttering at his shoulders and throat. Vecchio
    quickly forced the car up against the curb; three men and a
    white wolf of the north were on the youth's heels. The
    Pharaoh didn't hear their rapid footsteps until they were
    almost upon him - but when he did, he sprang into sudden
    speed, darting for the shadows of a rubble-strewn alley
    seconds ahead of his pursuers.
         Diefenbaker vanished into the darkness behind the
    fleeing thug; as the three men plunged into the alley behind
    him, they heard a lupine growl, then a thin, vaguely human
    whimper from their quarry. It took their eyes a matter of
    moments to adjust to the gloom, and they saw the Pharaoh,
    his back pressed helplessly against the wall, eyes
    transfixed by the glare and bared fangs of the beast.
         "Call off the dog! Call off the fucking dog, man!" the
    gang member wailed as he saw them coming.
         "He's not a dog, son," said Fraser calmly as he drew up
    beside the animal.
         "HE AIN'T A FUCKING SQUIRREL!"
         "You got that right," was Vecchio's comment. "Just stay
    still and he won't bite you. We'd like to ask you a couple
    of questions about - "
         "I don't know nothing, man!"
         "Well, that's a big help." The detective moved in a
    little closer. "Look, pal, we know the Pharaohs just pulled
    off a big job over at Chicago Hope Hospital. All we want to
    know is who you pulled it off for."
         "I told you, I don't know nothing!"
         "Oy." The mutter came from Lowe. "Let me handle this."
    He neatly sidestepped Vecchio to push in between the wolf
    and the Pharaoh. Nose to nose with the thug, he dropped his
    voice down into a volcanic register and rumbled, "Listen,
    asshole. We know that your fellow assholes in the Pharaohs -
    and possibly you - raided a fancy hospital and abducted
    three people. I happen to be married to one of those people... "
         The youth's eyes went wide as windows. "OH SHIT!"
         "You bet your ass, oh shit. We want to know who ordered
    them taken and where they are. Now start talking or the
    wolf, because that's what he is, is gonna chew your face
    off."
         But the other found his emergency reserve of defiance.
    "You can't do nothing to me, man! The Old Man takes care of
    us!"
         "Oh, I get it." Lowe gave a curt nod. "Okay, the hell
    with the wolf." He locked both fists around the youth's
    scarf, jacket, and shirtfront, hoisted him off his feet, and
    slammed him against the bricks at his back. "Uncle Sam
    taught me how to kill fast or slow, as I please. You want
    another one?"
         Fraser reached out in restraint. "Take it easy." No one
    paid him any attention at all.
         "I said, YOU WANT ANOTHER ONE?!" Lowe pulled the
    Pharaoh away from the wall for a second blow. Blood was
    already pouring down the thug's back from his torn scalp.
         "No, man! Chill out, man!" He waved placating hands.
         "Great." The veteran lowered him to the pavement. "Now
    we can get somewhere."
         Vecchio came to Lowe's side, ready to handle the
    interrogation. "Okay. Who's this Old Man of yours? Did he
    order the kidnappings?"
         "I think so. He tell us whenever we gotta do a special
    job. I wasn't on this one, so I dunno for sure, but the Old
    Man tell us what to do."
         "And who is the Old Man?"
         "He the Old Man! YOU know!"
         "We don't know. Lots of old men in Chicago; be 
    specific."
         "The Old Man, man! Like at City Hall! You stupid assholes 
    don't know nothing!"
         "Old Man ... Old Man ... " The wheels turned fast in
    Constable Fraser's head. "Do you mean ALDERMAN?"
         "Yeah! You right! At City Hall."
         "So, an Alderman." Vecchio nodded. "In this city, I
    should have guessed. Which one is he?"
         "Which one you think, ugly?" the youth jeered.
         Lowe rolled his eyes. "All right, enough of this shit."
    His hand went under his jacket just at the beltline, and
    suddenly metal gleamed in the night: six inches of razor-
    keen curved Japanese steel. "When I was in the 'Nam and my
    unit captured any gooks, it was my unofficial job to collect
    their ears. Which Alderman, punk?"
         "Jesus Christ!" Big beads of sweat ran down the
    Pharaoh's face. "Don't cut me, man! It's the fat guy, South
    Side, whatsisname ... " His eyes swung around in panic,
    following the knife-point.
         The police detective quickly ran through the relevant
    memories. "South Side, eh? Is it Muldrake, Bud Muldrake?"
         "He the man!"
         "Do you know where the victims were taken?" asked
    Fraser.
         "No, man - I told you I wasn't in on the job."
         "Great. Let's go." Yaacov Lowe sheathed his knife and
    released his grip on the young thug.
         "Wait a minute, man!" He was shivering violently inside
    his Arab scarf. "I helped you, you owe me."
         "What do we owe you, punk?" demanded Vecchio.
         "Just don't tell the Old Man I told you about him!"
         "No problem," answered Fraser cheerfully. "After all,
    you never told us your name. Thank you kindly for your help,
    son. Come, Diefenbaker."
         When they were all back in the car and cruising toward
    the precinct house, Vecchio turned an awed face to Lowe.
    "Did you really do stuff like that in Vietnam? I mean,
    ears?"
         "Those cliche atrocity stories really impress your
    average wad of street scum," Lowe replied with a loose
    shrug. "You saw."
         "But did you really do it?"
         The other grinned. "I'm thirty-five years old. The last
    chopper lifted out of Saigon in '75. You do the math."
    
         Now that Eric Pentecost was safely out of sight and
    earshot, Geiger slumped down in a corner of the cell and
    spoke even more freely. "I never thought I'd be up against
    this. Aaron, you notice anything physically strange about
    our host?"
         But before Shutt could reply, the third prisoner did.
    "I think he had an erection. Is that it?"
         Geiger looked at her in both surprise and admiration.
    "I guess a writer has to be observant! Yeah, that's it. And
    what does that suggest to you, Aaron?"
         Shutt didn't echo his friend's casual tone. "Active
    algolagnia," he said softly. "My God."
         Ruth looked from one doctor to the other and asked
    nervously, "If I were to guess that's medicalese for what
    lay people call sadism, would I be right?"
         "You would," answered Geiger. And silence followed.
         After a few minutes, it was broken. "May I pry?" Dr.
    Shutt asked his brooding patient gently.
         "Into what?" Ruth asked back.
         "What you're thinking about."
         She looked sad and distant. "My son and daughter. I
    wish I could see them once more ... and I hope they can
    forgive me for going away and not returning."
         Shutt closed his eyes for a moment before saying, "You
    really don't see any chance, then. No rescue, no escape?"
         She shrugged. "Not really, but I'm trying to. If my
    husband, God bless him, gets wind of this, Eric Pentecost is
    a dead man."
         "Let's hope he does." Geiger spoke for all of them.
         Ruth looked at him ruefully. "'The miserable have no
    other medicine but only hope: I have hope to live, and am
    prepared to die.'"
         "Nicely put," Shutt commented.
         "Shakespeare puts everything nicely." She sighed
    deeply. "But now's a time for prayer, not poetry,
    gentlemen." Suddenly her eyes brightened a bit as she looked
    at them. "You're Jewish, too; would either of you know some
    _Tehillim_, or _Viduy_, or even just _Alenu_? We could pray
    together ... " But her voice died away when she saw their
    faces. "Nothing?"
         "Nothing," said the neurosurgeon apologetically.
         "Not even _Shema_?"
         "No use for it," Geiger declared, perhaps too coldly.
         There was another quiet moment as Ruth studied his
    face. Finally she addressed him. "That's no casual
    statement. You've struggled terribly with this, haven't
    you?" He remained silent, meeting her eyes and assenting
    thereby. "You're no atheist, Jeffrey. You know God is there
    ... and you cannot love Him."
         And Geiger had to lower his gaze. "You're good."
         She let those words pass. "I know you won't believe me,
    but this is true, and someday you will know it: He suffers
    with you, and the time will come when the suffering will
    end." Now she turned to the other physician. "You've never
    approached this matter too closely, have you, Aaron? You
    can't, not now; the poor souls who need a neurosurgeon's
    help are just too great a challenge to the hope of a loving
    God ... but neither can you bear the thought that the misery
    you see is meaningless. So you don't let the question come
    up."
         "If you could see what I've seen ... " Shutt began, but
    did not finish.
         She smiled at him. "Your turn to trust me. If you live
    through this ordeal, eventually you'll need your answer;
    turn to the Torah and find it in there, as I did. Maybe
    tomorrow, maybe someday. In the meantime, I'll approach Him
    in behalf of all of us." Her voice dropped low and into
    another tongue, and the others sat quietly and heard.
    
         Outside the windows of Phillip Watters' office, troops
    of massed gray clouds darkened the day. The chief of staff
    stood behind his desk as he spoke. "Please understand,
    Camille, that this in no way reflects upon your work."
         "Then why are you relieving me of duty, Phillip?"
    Camille Shutt's blue eyes directly engaged Watters' face and
    did not flicker.
         "As a favor." His voice dropped a little. "Since the
    incident - "
         "Do me another favor, Doctor: Call it by its proper
    name!"
         Watters bowed his head. "Very well. Since the
    kidnapping, you've been driving yourself like a serf, and
    doing a good job of hiding your personal reactions -
    entirely too good a job. You need time and space to deal
    with this, to - "
         "To mourn?" Her voice wavered only slightly.
         "I didn't mean that!" Watters' famous calm was showing
    a narrow crack. "As far as we know, they're alive and well."
         "We know nothing, Phillip."
         Silently Watters conceded the point, and tried another
    tack. "All of us are worried, Camille, but the strain is
    hardest on you; it stands to reason. I want you to rest, to
    go home - "
         "Go home?" Her words almost stuck fast to the sob in
    her throat. "To a house where every room, every OBJECT
    speaks to me of Aaron, and to know he may never return? Do I
    spend the days wondering what those - those animals have
    done with him? Waiting for the call from the police wanting
    me to come and identify - " Now the tears burst, washing
    speech away.
         Watters came to her, took her trembling form into his
    arms, tried to find words to still her pain and knew there
    were none. He felt tears burning in his own eyes, wished he
    did not have to hold them back.
         Soon Camille had regained some control, straightened up
    and took a step away. "Thank you, Phillip," she said, still
    a little tearfully, "I'm terribly sorry." He shook his head
    and patted her shoulder to dismiss the apology, and let her
    speak on. "Please let me stay on duty; it's the only way to
    keep my mind off the fear, the only thing keeping me sane!"
    She forced a smile. "Listen to me! God, I'm finally
    beginning to understand where Jeffrey Geiger's coming from."
         "I understand," the chief of staff replied softly.
    "You're welcome to keep working for as long as you need."
         This smile was wan, but sincere. "I appreciate that."
    She looked away, first down at the floor, then out towards
    the sky. "You know, there are so many questions about this
    horrible event, so many dreadful questions, but the one I
    can't get out of my mind is ... " She paused, met Watters'
    eyes again. "Why did they spare the rest of us? I was in
    that OR, and Danny Nyland too, Carney, Sara Petty and I
    can't even remember which techs, all of us working on that
    poor woman, and they only took Aaron and Jeffrey. Why?"
         "I wish I knew, Camille."
         "Yes." She stared out the window at the dark prison-
    wall of the clouds. "Why couldn't they have taken me instead
    of Aaron ... or even in Jeffrey's place, so that at least
    we'd be together at the end?"
    
    TO BE CONTINUED
    
    NOTES 
    
    Tehillim - Psalms. 
    
    Viduy - The confessional prayer said on fast days and 
    when death is imminent. 
    
    Alenu - Concluding prayer of daily services, also 
    associated with martyrdom.
    
    Shema - Statement of faith, usually the first prayer 
    learned in childhood and the observant adult's last words.
    **NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: VI**
    
         In the prison cell below Pentecost's mansion, Ruth
    suddenly sat up to full attention. "'By the pricking of my
    thumbs, something wicked this way comes'!"
         "You can say that again," said Geiger wearily,
    recognizing their captor's tread and rising to the bars to
    meet him.
         "Maybe the mind games will finally end," muttered
    Shutt.
         Seeing the approaching figure, Geiger shook his head.
    "Not a chance, Aaron." Soon Eric Pentecost stood before
    them, and Geiger's companions could see exactly what he'd
    meant. In his right hand the enemy carried the tightly
    bound, black leather coil of a whip.
         Pentecost swept his prisoners with a scornful,
    confident gaze, then released the coil, letting the black
    lash snake to the floor. He gave the whip an experimental
    shake, then suddenly yanked it back and high and cracked it
    quickly, once, twice, three times. As the last echoes of the
    fearful sound faded, the corridor and cell went deeply
    quiet.
         Again Pentecost ran his eyes across them, meeting each
    of theirs in turn: Jeffrey Geiger, his aspect proud and
    contemptuous; Aaron Shutt's gaze cool, deceptively neutral;
    Ruth Lowe quietly defiant. Finally he broke the silence.
    "Has no one any comment?"
         "You want a comment, Pentecost?" said Geiger
    scornfully. "Here's one: If you want to intimidate us, try
    something a little less corny."
         Pentecost chuckled. "I assure you it doesn't seem so
    laughable when it strikes across your stripped back, Dr.
    Geiger. Perhaps you'll soon find that out for yourself. But
    it wasn't really your comment I wanted to hear." He was
    looking at the woman. "It's your reaction I'm most
    interested in, Ruth my dear." When she didn't reply, he
    pressed on. "Come, tell me, what do you think of my little
    toy?"
         She considered him, his hungry, eager face, the bulge
    of arousal below his belt. "Please don't hit me with it. Is
    that what you wanted to hear?"
         "Yes, in fact ... but don't be frightened of that
    prospect, my lady. I have no intention of doing you harm."
    Again he chuckled. "At least not with my own hands."
         "Oh. Are the Pharaohs going to do more of your dirty
    work for you?"
         He shook his head, ran the lash through his graceful
    fingers. "How unimaginative, especially for so clever a
    writer. No, Ruth, you have nothing to fear from them. Your
    punishment will be far more ghastly coming from friends than
    from enemies."
         Ruth said nothing. She clasped her hands to stop their
    shivering, brought them to her lips, closed her watering
    eyes. Beside her Shutt gasped in astonishment and horror; at
    the bars Geiger growled softly, "Neither you nor any power
    on earth can make us hurt her, you bastard - "
         The whip cracked again. "I see that impressed all of
    you! Especially you, dear Ruth. An interesting thought:
    These men who saved your life from my agent just a few days
    ago will now become my agents! How deeply ironic."
         But Ruth was rallying her strength. Her lips moved
    silently in an ancient stanza as she lowered her hands; then
    her eyes opened and her voice came up again. "I trust them.
    They won't do your bidding, Mr. Pentecost."
         Pentecost smiled thinly, his lips a pale slash. The
    whip in his hand squirmed like a living thing hungry for
    flesh. "Yes, they will," he said to Ruth, his voice down to
    an insinuating whisper. "And what if I did take these
    professional lifesavers, these men of mercy, and forced them
    to kill you?"
         She did not look away. "Seeing as death would put me
    beyond your reach, I would have to say, 'Crito, I owe a cock
    to Asklepios; pay it and don't forget it.'"
         Before puzzlement took over his face entirely, he
    warped it into anger. "And just what did you say?"
         "The last words of Socrates, expressing his gratitude
    to the god of medicine, you _am ha'aretz_."
         That left him angrier. "Which means?" She pursed her
    lips truculently and didn't answer. Pentecost drew back his
    arm, cracked the whip. "Talk, or I use this!" Her gaze
    wavered, but again, there was no reply. His frown darkened -
    then the thin smile returned as he pointed with the handle
    of the whip at Aaron Shutt. "On him."
         She paled and gasped. "Please, no!"
         "Then tell me what you said."
         She paused, sighed, spoke. "Talmudic idiom. Means
    'unlettered peasant.' Are you happy now?"
         Geiger stifled laughter; Pentecost's eyes flashed. "You
    needn't worry I'll make you pay for that, you impertinent
    little bitch; I've already decided your fate. And your
    doctor friends will make it possible."
         "Then you will make them kill me."
         Geiger broke in. "No, he won't."
         "Hold your peace, Dr. Geiger; this doesn't involve you
    yet." Pentecost turned his attention to the second
    physician. "It's more a matter for you, my dear Dr. Shutt.
    In the course of your no doubt extensive training, have you
    ever been taught, or had occasion to perform," he paused to
    slowly lick his lips, "a prefrontal lobotomy?"
         The neurosurgeon's mouth dropped open. "WHAT?"
         "You heard me, Doctor. A prefrontal lobotomy."
         "Nobody's done one of those in thirty years! It's the
    most cruel, useless butchery that - "
         "A pity. So you'll have to learn by doing."
         "Oh my God ... " Shutt's face had gone gray. "No, you
    can't - I can't! Not Ruth!" He looked to her; the fear in
    her eyes mirrored the despair in his.
         "I can, and you will!" Pentecost now looked to Geiger.
    "And you'll assist him. Spare me your whining protests."
         The heart surgeon's face looked as hard and deadly as a
    mace. "No protests, just a question: Why do you want it
    done?"
         There was an awful light in the steel-gray eyes. "An
    excellent question, Doctor. Why, indeed, would a man like
    Eric Pentecost order a human intellect sliced to ribbons?
    This intellect in particular?" He looked to Ruth icily,
    triumphantly; she looked away, trembling, and permitted
    Aaron Shutt to take her hands in his while she heard her
    doom.
         "There's a common feature of all the arrogant types who
    refuse to accept universal equality," Pentecost sneered,
    "they all have big plans for themselves. Not hard to guess
    what your plans were, Mrs. Lowe; let me try! A successful
    writing career, perhaps even fame, wealth, all the blessings
    rampant capitalism can bestow ... most of all, your pride
    reflected back to you in the eyes of your children, right?
    But the plans have changed. You won't be seeing home again,
    or joining the ranks of the ruling class; you'll learn
    firsthand what slavery means! You'll remain here, plodding,
    slow and obedient; ready to bow or kneel or spread your legs
    on command; forcing a sluggish tongue around the words 'Yes,
    master'; wetting and soiling yourself in terror of the whip - "
         "ENOUGH!" Shutt's anguished cry silenced the
    recitation. "The great Eric Pentecost is supposed to be so
    compassionate!" Tears spilled from his dark eyes. "Well, if
    it's true, then have pity and DON'T MAKE ME DO THIS!"
         And Pentecost threw back his head, roaring with
    laughter, swirling his whip like a Chinese dancer's ribbon.
    "Look at yourself! The proud surgeon kneels and trembles,
    weeping like a woman and pleading like a slave, his
    expensive hands around those of a condemned wretch! This is
    just too delicious. Consider it long-overdue fairness, Dr.
    Shutt, fit restitution for all the money you've extracted
    from the sick and desperate."
         With a wordless growl, Jeffrey Geiger flung himself
    against the bars, making a grab for the whip, but Pentecost
    saw him coming and easily flicked the lash away. "Do you
    think I'll permit you any chance to arm yourself, Dr.
    Geiger, no matter how feebly? Now settle down before you
    spoil my fun."
         "LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU CRUEL SON OF A BITCH!"
         With a chuckle, Pentecost replied, "Oh, you're a fine
    one to call me cruel, Geiger, you who cut deep into the
    flesh of the living to extract their hearts and replace them
    with the hearts of the dead - and then extort money for your
    mutilations!"
         "You are nuts, stupid or both - transplants save
    lives!"
         "Lives!" Their captor hissed the word. "The doctors'
    obsession! The world crawls with people like vermin,
    devouring and consuming and excreting, fouling our virgin
    Mother Earth! People and their endless desires enrich the
    corporations, empower the religions, spill over in family
    after family - the endless parade of exploitation, from
    disgusting puking infants to drooling senile old folks. And
    you doctors would save them all!"
         "Right now I'd definitely make an exception for you,
    Pentecost." He spat the name like a curse.
         Another chuckle. "No doubt you would ... but you and
    your friends are in my hands, Dr. Geiger. And now I place
    your fate in THEIR hands."
         Shutt looked up and asked, "What are you saying?"
         Icy victory returned to Pentecost's eyes. "I am saying,
    Dr. Shutt, that I leave this decision to you and to Ruth;
    you may obey me or not, as you please. But if you do not
    agree to the surgery I have ordered, then you shall watch as
    your friend and colleague Jeffrey Geiger dies - very, very
    slowly, in the most exquisite torment."
         "Dear God ... " Ruth bowed her pale face against her
    hands. Beside her, Shutt silently lowered his own head.
         If Geiger was afraid, he showed none of it. "Don't do
    it, Aaron," he said serenely to his friend.
         "You wouldn't say that if you knew," Pentecost sneered
    to the heart surgeon. "You're not the only one around here
    skillful with needles and blades ... and I dare say I'm more
    inventive than you with acids." He addressed Shutt for a
    final time.  "Ultimately the decision is yours, Dr. Shutt.
    Her mind ... or his life."
         "And either way," said the neurosurgeon, grief clawing
    his voice, "my soul."
         The enemy merely laughed in reply, coiled up his whip,
    and strode easily away. Only Geiger watched him go.
         Once Pentecost was out of sight, the cardiac specialist
    turned to his fellow prisoners. "You're not going to do that
    procedure, Aaron," he stated flatly.
         Shutt's head slumped forward; unable to look at either
    of his companions, he let his eyes close. "Now I know there
    is a hell," he whispered.
         But Ruth spoke up. "Take me. You don't know me at all;
    I'm just another body on the table. But you two are closer
    than flesh and skin."
         Geiger came away from the bars to settle himself beside
    her, kindness in his face. His hand rested gently on her
    shoulder. "We know you well enough to know that you don't
    deserve the misery Pentecost plans for you."
         "What about the misery he plans for YOU, Jeffrey?"
         He shrugged. "It won't last long."
         "No, no, please God, no!" She looked helplessly to
    Shutt. "Aaron, you can't let him perish!"
         For about a minute there was a deep quiet; then Shutt
    slowly raised his head, looking at her. "But I can't
    mutilate you either, Ruth."
         At her other side, Geiger echoed his friend's soft
    tone. "We didn't become doctors to cut decent people like
    you into playthings for a killer."
         The woman shook her head furiously. "Do you think your
    death can save me from Pentecost? Only MY death can do that
    - and it might even help both of you."
         "What are you talking about?" Shutt asked quietly.
         "Please, do as he says. Perform the operation. But I
    beg of you, if you think you can get away with it without
    worsening your own situation and Jeffrey's ... please ... "
         Shutt leaned in close. "What?"
         "Please, Aaron - make a mistake."
         His eyes went wide. "I beg your pardon?"
         "You must understand. I said, make a mistake."
         Both men stared at her. "Ruth, do you realize what
    you're asking?" Shutt gasped.
         "For a clean and painless death. Can I hope for
    anything better at this point?"
         "You're asking me to murder you!"
         "Have you never euthanized a patient before?"
         "Well ... yes, I have, but this wouldn't be euthanasia!
    There's no irreversible coma, no persistent vegetative - "
         "Yes, I know, _primum non nocere_. I have all my
    faculties - so far. But Aaron, Jeffrey," she turned pleading
    eyes to Geiger, "what do I face? A twisted parody of life,
    spiritually and mentally crippled, barely human ... as Eric
    Pentecost's slave? You heard what kind of hell that madman
    plans for me!" A sob choked her for a moment; then she took
    tenuous control again and looked Shutt squarely in the eyes.
    "I really was serious in what I said before, that I'd be
    grateful for death. I know I'm doing a terrible _aveira_, a
    sin, both by asking you to do this and by wanting it done.
    But Hashem has left us with nothing else ... and it can't be
    worse to strike one merciful blow than to tear my mind to
    shreds ... or to watch your friend suffer and die." Unable
    to go on, she sat trembling, and no one spoke until she
    rallied her strength and resumed. "I know it's a lot to ask
    for, but I'd rather die by your hand than his. If it helps,
    think of yourselves as the instruments of my suicide."
         "Isn't suicide a sin?" Geiger demanded.
         "Not when it's to avoid a worse desecration. _L'havdil_
     - meaning, pardon the comparison - Sarah Shenirer and her
    students leaped to their deaths from the roof of their
    school rather than be captured by the Nazis."
         "I understand," said Shutt gently. He stroked her
    bandaged head. "You look so tired, Ruth; please rest and
    don't worry. We'll consider your request."
    
    TO BE CONTINUED
    
    NOTES 
    
    "By the pricking of my thumbs ... " - from "Macbeth," by
    Shakespeare. (Duh. I told you I'm not usually this pedantic.)
    
    primum non nocere - "First, do no harm." From the
    Hippocratic Oath.
    
    **NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: VII**
    
         "You wanted to see me, Alan?"
         "Thanks for coming." Birch greeted the chief of staff
    from a rich harvest of papers and files that half-covered
    his bed and himself. "Sit down, Phillip; this could take a
    while. Thanks to Detective Halmora," he indicated the
    attractive policewoman seated at his other side, "I've been
    doing a fair amount of digging here, and I've hit a very
    interesting deposit."
         Watters acknowledged Halmora, then settled himself on
    the remaining chair. "What have you found?"
         "I had the Detective pull the last six months of
    interrogation reports involving members of the Pharaohs in
    her precinct. Not one of them cooperated, all demanded to
    have counsel present, and - here's the first interesting
    detail - not one used the public defender's office."
         "Really. And where did these delightful young men's
    attorneys come from?"
         "Interesting detail number two." Birch opened a file
    folder and pointed out a line to Watters' gaze. "It was
    always one of the same four or five lawyers - all on
    retainer to the Excelsior Foundation."
         "The Excelsior Foundation?" Clouds gathered in Watters'
    eyes. "That outfit with the reverse Midas touch?"
         Stacy Halmora looked puzzled. "What do you mean,
    Doctor?"
         "It's supposed to be a philanthropic foundation, but
    wherever it goes and whatever it does, things get worse for
    the poor and harder for just about everyone. We've had more
    than our share of trouble with it."
         Birch raised a couple of folders. "I even remember the
    guy named in these. He's the one who argued Excelsior's
    class-action suit alleging Chicago Hope's emergency room
    triage protocols were racist. I don't know about you,
    Phillip, but I'd love to lock him in a room with Dr. Nyland
    and see what happens."
         "A splendid time guaranteed," Watters rumbled.
    
         "Anyway," the attorney went on, "Detective Halmora alsofound the
    relevant records from when these assorted Pharaohs ended up in front
    of judges. For starters, almost none of
    them did."
         "Plea bargaining?" inquired the chief of staff.
         "Negative. District attorney and victims refusing to
    pursue charges. Phillip, some of these young thugs were up
    for murder." He sorted through another batch of papers. "And
    those few that did make it to court - "
         "Let me guess: Cases dismissed."
         "You're way ahead of me. And this all seems to dovetail
    very neatly with the way the police treated Mrs. Lowe's
    shooting, and the way they're treating the abductions." With
    an air of finality, Birch pulled all the papers together and
    tapped them into a neat pile. "Theories, anyone?"
         Watters stroked his beard; above it his green eyes
    gleamed like foxfire. "A certain local street gang seems to
    have the patronage of a certain powerful institution."
         "But why?" wondered Halmora.
         "That, Detective, should be your department's job."
    Watters reached for the telephone. "What was the name of the
    primary investigator on this case?"
         "Detective Vecchio," she answered, "but I overheard him
    say yesterday that he found you a bit intimidating, Dr.
    Watters. Maybe Alan should make the call?"
         Watters conceded with a brisk bow of his head as he
    handed the phone to Birch. "Be my guest, Counsel."
    
         "Is she asleep?" Shutt asked, looking over towards the
    still and silent Ruth.
         "I think so," answered his friend. There was a wordless
    moment before Geiger went on, "You can't do that procedure
    on her, Aaron."
         "No." More silence, then, "It looks like I'll have to
    do as she asked."
         "Kill her."
         "Yes." Both of them regarded the sleeping woman. "She's
    right; refusing to operate won't save her from that
    psychopath and his tortures. Death is the only escape." The
    neurosurgeon sighed heavily. "I only wish it didn't have to
    be me."
         "Us," Geiger corrected, sharing the weight. "Well, now
    we know why we were brought here."
         Shutt nodded. "And once she's finished either way, dead
    or maimed, Pentecost has no further use for us."
         Geiger even smiled - but sadly, ironically. His gaze
    roved aimlessly to the low ceiling of their prison. "Ruth is
    lucky she has God in her life. You know, she will be a
    martyr of sorts - not for religion but for freedom."
         "It seems appropriate," Shutt concurred. He watched her
    sleep. "I won't be able to make it look like a mistake - not
    if I want to be quick and sure."
         "What'll you do?"
         "We'll be given instruments. They'll have to include
    scalpels, maybe a razor for her hair ... I'm going to cut
    her throat and be done with it." Now he looked to Geiger.
    "You realize that I'll be signing our death warrants too."
         "Of course. And I'm going to make a serious attempt to
    take Pentecost with me."
         Light flashed in Shutt's eyes. "How?"
         "Those instruments. All I need's a good sharp knife.
    He'll be watching ... and once the deed is done, I'm going
    straight for that reptile's heart."
         "There'll be guards, Jeffrey, and they'll have guns."
         "Good! Let them shoot! Going out in a fusillade beats
    being strapped to a table, waiting for the needles and the
    acid." His face softened. "Promise me you'll fight too,
    Aaron. Make them shoot you. Don't let him take you alive for
    his revenge."
         A quiet smile touched his friend's features. "Don't
    worry, Jeffrey. I'm with you, and I'll fight." Again he
    looked at the sleeping woman. "In Ruth's honor."
    
         Detective Vecchio's cellular telephone squealed in his
    pocket. "Just a second, guys." He pulled the Buick over and
    set the phone free. "Vecchio. Yeah, what can I do for you,
    Mr. Birch? Really - well, what do you know?" The civilian
    and the foreigner sat silently as Vecchio pawed his notebook
    from his pocket and scribbled hastily. "I got it. Excelsior.
    Thanks a lot for the lead. Yeah, as a matter of fact, we do
    have one of our own we're working on now. Not to worry, Mr.
    Birch, tell the boss we'll find them. Thanks; good luck to
    you too." Now he snapped the phone closed and addressed his
    companions. "Would you believe Chicago Hope's lawyer? Let's
    get back to the squad room - we got a next move to plan."
         Soon they were clustered around Vecchio's desk,
    ignoring the derisive looks of the rest of the squad,
    concentrating on what they had in hand. "So what'd you
    learn?" Yaacov Lowe demanded.
         "Something pretty interesting. According to that little
    hospital mouthpiece, the Pharaohs are being protected by the
    money and legal talent of the Excelsior Foundation."
         "The Excelsior Foundation?" Constable Fraser probed.
         "Big local do-good endowment, depending on what you
    think's doing good. Mostly they dribble tax-exempt money
    all over pissant radical groups, sickos who call
    themselves artists, and university departments of bullshit
    studies. We know them pretty well over here; they send a
    dumpster-load of fancy lawyers over to defend any street
    scum who shoots a cop."
         "I see," replied Fraser. "Can any connection be
    established with Alderman Muldrake?"
         "Wouldn't surprise me a bit."
         Lowe was enthusiastic. "So let's find out! How do we
    get in to talk to the bastard?"
         "Won't be easy," the detective observed. "A crooked
    politician is a paranoid politician."
         "Also a greedy politician," Lowe observed craftily.
    "What kind of bribe can we offer him?" He looked over at
    the Mountie. "Maybe this NAFTA thing can give us an idea."
         "What do you have in mind, Mr. Lowe?" Fraser asked.
         "Look, no one will ever give us a warrant to search
    his office or anything; we're on our own on this one."
         "You got that right," Vecchio muttered.
         "So what I think is: Let's bluff our way in. I'll
    tell him I'm CEO of some shipping outfit in Toronto or
    something, and he'll get a cut of the non-tariff fees if
    he gets us a city contract. Something like that. You'll
    make a convincing prop, Constable!"
         "In uniform, no doubt I would," that one answered.
    "But you're proposing a very dangerous plan. If it doesn't
    work - "
         Vecchio finished the sentence for him. "You and I can
    kiss our badges goodbye."
         Lowe shrugged. "Sounds good to me. Anyone have a
    better idea? Like waiting for three bodies - two male, one
    female - to come in on the morgue wagon?"
         "Good point," Vecchio allowed. "Let's do it."
    
         When Eric Pentecost appeared again before his
    prisoners, he was not alone. This time a swarm of
    Pharaohs, armed, obedient, eyes flat and dead, were with
    him. "Good morning, my friends," he sneered. "Gentlemen, I
    believe it is time to prepare for surgery. If you would
    come forward ... " The cell door was unlocked and drawn
    aside. Neither doctor entertained the thought of
    attempting a dash for freedom - not under the guns of the
    mob, not with their patient unable to run. Geiger and
    Shutt stepped out slowly as teams of guards came into
    position around them.
         "Very good," Pentecost commented. "No need to make
    this any harder for yourselves. And as for you, dear lady
    ... " He beckoned to a Pharaoh, who dutifully placed a
    bucket of water, an armful of towels and a clean gown in
    the cell before it was locked again. "I know you can't
    bathe or shower yet, so you might as well use the solitude
    to clean yourself up." He paused, waited. "Well, aren't
    you going to thank me?"
         "No," Ruth answered, trying too hard not to cry.
         He snickered. "Now, now, something certainly ought to
    be done about that stubborn streak - and will be. Right
    this way, gentlemen."
    
         Geiger would never have admitted it, but the chance
    to shower, shave, and change clothes after all this time
    felt almost like returning to life. Still, it was small
    comfort. "Look at this," he observed to Shutt as they
    donned the clean surgical scrubs provided for them. "These
    were stolen from our hospital. Doesn't that bastard ever
    run out of ways to twist the knife?"
         "Apparently not. But it'll all be over soon ... "
         When they were returned to the cell, Ruth had finished
    her own ablutions and was using the last of the towels to
    mop up the puddle. "Why, how very domestic," Pentecost
    mocked. "Such instincts will make you useful once your
    servitude begins." No one expected her to answer. As the
    physicians were sealed again behind the bars, their captor
    explained, "It will only be a matter of minutes before the
    operating theater is prepared. I'm afraid the conditions
    will be primitive compared to what you're used to, but you
    should find them adequate to my purposes."
         "Take your time," Shutt muttered.
         But Pentecost was as good as his word. He and his
    thugs had only been gone a few minutes - spent in deep
    silence by the three captives - before massed footsteps
    could again be heard approaching down the corridor.
         Ruth froze in horror as she realized there would be no
    more stalling, no possible reprieve. Her panicked eyes
    flashed to the faces of her companions; almost voiceless,
    she gasped, "Please ... you will ... ?"
         Geiger dropped his gaze and nodded; Shutt returned her
    terrified look with his own calm one, and quietly replied,
    "Yes, Ruth."
         She let out a sigh, a very soft one mingling relief
    and regret, and rose to her feet. "This is goodbye," she
    said; then, impossibly, she smiled. Her eyes met Geiger's.
    "Jeffrey ... I don't know what to say to a man who would
    not have blinked on Omaha Beach."
         "Trust me, I would've."
         *No, you wouldn't have,* Shutt thought, and then
    Ruth's eyes were on his, with tears in them. "Aaron ... had
    you been there, you would not have survived Auschwitz, but
    many others would have because of you." He lowered his
    head, unable to answer, and took her hand in his. On her
    left, Geiger echoed the gesture, taking the other hand.
    Together they would lead her to the end ...
         "No," Ruth objected softly. Stepping back one pace,
    she raised the two men's hands she held, brought them
    together, and with utmost tenderness joined them. Her hands
    free, she reached up to touch their faces for a moment, and
    softly recited, "_Kave el Hashem; chazak v'ya'ametz
    libecha, v'kave el Hashem_." Then the guards closed around 
    them and they were moving down the corridor, toward the steel 
    table at its terminus and the knives.
    
    TO BE CONTINUED
    
    NOTES 
    
    Kave el Hashem ... - Psalm 27:14. "Hope in the Lord; be
    strong and He will give your heart courage, and hope in
    the Lord."
    
    **NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: VIII**
    
         The Pharaoh escorts brought them into a large white
    room, bright and cold as a blade, where Pentecost stood
    waiting. His face was eager, hungry as a snake's, and his
    hands quivered with anticipation. But they barely looked
    at him; their eyes were drawn to the center of the room,
    where the table gleamed under a thin white cloth and the
    tray of instruments glimmered beside it. There were
    surgical masks and latex gloves waiting near a sink at
    the wall. Ruth wavered, feeling her legs go weak, but
    Geiger's arm was there to support her. "Forgive us," he
    whispered.
         "I have," she whispered back, calling on all her
    courage to stand erect and approach the table. She lay
    down upon it, her lips moving in the confessional
    prayers appropriate to coming death, and the physicians
    headed for the sink to scrub for surgery. Meanwhile the
    street soldiers arrayed themselves at the walls, weapons
    ready.
         Pentecost hovered near the sink, watching his
    captives prepare. "There was one detail I'd forgotten:
    There's no nurse here to help you. It must be so
    humiliating for the great surgeons to do women's work."
    He focused on Shutt. "Your wife is a nurse, isn't she?
    Shall I send some of my boys to Chicago Hope to borrow
    her?"
         Shutt whirled toward him. "Damn you!" he erupted.
    "Leave my wife out of this! You've got one innocent
    woman to torture - isn't that enough?"
         "Just trying to help," the other smirked. "There
    now, you both look clean to me. Put those things on and
    get to work; I want my toy."
         *You'll never get her,* Geiger thought hotly. But
    he said nothing as he tied on his mask.
         Ruth lay upon cold metal the color of her captor's
    eyes. She turned her head to watch her friends approaching,
    their hands sealed in sterile latex, their eyes filled with
    sadness and an awful resolve. Beyond them Pentecost waited
    like a circling vulture, and the Pharaohs ventured in
    several steps closer from their posts at the walls.
         Arriving at the operating table, Geiger noticed a
    brown bottle and a cotton pad beside the instrument tray.
    "Chloroform? What's this for?" he demanded.
         "Anesthesia," answered Pentecost. "Crude, but
    effective."
         Shutt turned to stare at him. "This procedure is
    supposed to be performed under a local."
         "But it won't be. Administer the anesthesia, Dr.
    Geiger."
         "No!" the heart surgeon declared. "That stuff's
    brutal."
         "Yes, I know," Pentecost said with relish, "it can
    cause brain damage. Considering what you're about to do,
    that's a moot point, isn't it?"
         The doctors said nothing, but they heard Ruth's voice,
    in a whisper barely above a breath. "Please, do it. Just
    give me time for _Shema_." Geiger obeyed, wetting the pad,
    holding it poised above her tear-stained face as she spoke 
    the final prayer. As she finished, he brought the damp 
    cloth over her mouth and nose, felt the deep breath, 
    watched the weary body go limp for the last time. His eyes 
    moistened; behind his mask, his lips silently formed a 
    single word: "Goodbye."
         Shutt released Ruth's head from its wrappings. Most of
    her hair remained, dark and soft, except where he had
    operated before, seemingly centuries ago. The neurosurgeon
    was mildly astonished at how calm he felt. He and his
    colleague had held death at bay uncounted times; now, about
    to kill and to die - to feed, rather than foil, the reaper
    it barely seemed any different. He looked over to the
    instruments: the drill, the head-clamp, the hideous dull
    probe, the long bright blade of the razor. He inhaled long
    and deeply, let it out, then looked into the dark eyes of
    his dearest friend.
         Jeffrey Geiger made a single nod. It was time. Drawing
    another deep breath, Aaron Shutt looked down at the woman's
    pale face and waiting throat. *Goodbye, Ruth,* he thought,
    *and I hope the God you love is waiting for you.* He opened
    his hand and reached for the razor.
         Another hand struck at his, trapping his wrist,
    twisting it away from the blade. His left arm was seized
    too, and a muscular forearm was locked around his neck. In
    the grip of three of the Pharaohs, Shutt was wrestled away
    from the operating table; grunts of effort and snarls of
    protest told him that Pentecost's goons were swarming over
    Geiger as well.
         Once both surgeons were pinioned and helpless, and
    well away from the insensate Ruth, Pentecost came
    swaggering over. "Well now, gentlemen," he sneered, "we
    have reached endgame at last. You thought you could cheat
    me of my prize, and I admire your spirit for trying, but
    now comes the end of all pretenses. Off with your masks -"
    he reached towards their faces to snatch off the sterile
    coverings - "as I'm shedding mine."
         "What is this?" Geiger growled. "You changed your
    mind about butchering that poor woman's brain all of a
    sudden?"
         The enemy shook his head, smiling derisively. "I
    told you, Dr. Geiger, the game is up. I know you were
    plotting her death and your own - of course, you never
    had a chance of causing mine."
         Shutt's eyes widened as he suddenly understood. "The
    cell was miked ... you heard everything!"
         "Everything." He chuckled triumphantly. "Every
    confidence, every reluctant confession, every sweet
    little intimacy. The three of you are really quite
    eloquent, you know; listening to you would have brought
    tears to my eyes if I hadn't been so busy laughing! You
    were so tender, so brave, so stupidly trusting of your
    privacy ... I'm glad I have tapes. They'll bring me
    considerable pleasure long after you're dead - which will
    be very soon." He waved to his thugs. "Back to the cell
    with them - but leave the woman here with me."
         "Don't you dare touch her!" Geiger roared,
    struggling uselessly against the net of limbs binding
    him.
         Despair had leached the last of Shutt's strength.
    "Please leave her alone; she's completely defenseless - "
         "Exactly."
         As the doctors were forced away, they looked back,
    horrified, to see Pentecost looming over Ruth, reaching
    toward her motionless body, a diabolical light in his
    eyes.
    
         Returned to their prison cell, the two men sat close
    together, not speaking, trying not to think about what
    they had left behind them and what lay ahead. Empty time
    crawled by, with nothing for Pentecost to hear through
    his hidden microphone ... but they knew that at the
    moment he was not listening.
         Suddenly there was a sound of approaching footsteps,
    mingled with a low, barely audible moan. "My God, it's
    Ruth," Shutt whispered; he and Geiger were at the bars,
    ready to receive her as the Pharaohs carried the limp
    body to the cell. Under leveled guns the gate was drawn
    back, then closed; soon the thugs had left the three
    alone again.
         Ruth stirred slightly and moaned again as she lay
    with her head in Geiger's lap. The flimsy hospital gown
    was intact; she was unmarked except for a smear of blood
    across her cheeks and mouth. There was no wound on her
    face, nor any sign of whence the blood had come. Before
    either doctor could examine her further, her brown eyes
    fluttered open and she saw them. "You spared me," she
    gasped, "what happened?"
         "You first," Geiger said gently. "How do you feel?"
         "I have a bad headache; I think it's from the
    chloroform," she answered. "Please, Jeffrey, WHAT
    HAPPENED?" 
         "It's a long story," he said. "The short version is:
    The bastard tricked us."
         Her face showed utter bewilderment, and Shutt
    expanded the story for her. "There's a hidden microphone
    somewhere in this cell; Pentecost has been listening to
    us all along. He knew you had asked to die and we had
    agreed. Before I could," he paused, swallowed hard, "do
    it, his goons grabbed us. I failed you, Ruth. God, I'm
    sorry!"
         "Don't be, Aaron," she said, trying to smile.
    "There's no more danger of the lobotomy, and we're all
    still alive."
         "Probably not for long," observed Geiger.
         Shutt tried to speak, licked his lips, tried again.
    "There's something else we haven't told you. When
    Pentecost stopped us and gave away the secret, we were
    sent back here ... but he kept you with him,
    unconscious." Again unable to find words, the
    neurosurgeon put his hand to her face, brought his
    fingers away bloody, held them up to show her.
         "Oh, God!" She put her own hand to her lips and gasped
    at the sight of it. "WHAT DID HE DO TO ME?"
         Geiger shook his head. "We don't know. If you want, I
    can examine you now - "
         "No!" She clasped her arms across her breast. "Please
    don't; I don't want to know!"
         "We understand," he replied gently.
         Thus matters remained for a little while, until Ruth
    asked tentatively, "Do you think Pentecost is listening
    to us now?"
         "Knowing that son of a bitch, probably," Geiger
    guessed.
         "Good. Can you hear me, Eric Pentecost? Listen and
    listen well! Even if no man ever learns what you've done
    to us, there is One who sees and knows. There is a Judge,
    Pentecost, and sooner or later you'll stand before Him!"
         "I like the sound of that," commented Shutt.
    
         Alderman Bud Muldrake's secretary appeared in the
    waiting room before the three men. "The Alderman will see
    you now." They rose and entered the main office: a tall,
    bearded blond in a gray suit and matching fedora, an RCMP
    constable in brown uniform, and a sharp-eyed Italian in
    gleaming sharkskin.
         Inside waiting for them was a fat, rumpled, aging
    politician. "Hi. You the guys from Great Lakes Transit?
    C'mon in, siddown!"
         Lowe stepped forward to speak for them and to shake
    Muldrake's beefy hand. "Thank you for agreeing to this
    meeting on such short notice, Alderman. This is indeed an
    honor."
         "Hey, I always got a minute for our friends up north.
    But right now all I got's a minute, so let's get right to
    brass tacks." He plopped himself down behind his desk.
    "You want a city contract, but you don't got any minority
    ownership."
         "We haven't even any American ownership, I'm
    afraid." 
         "So what's it you do? Shipping, right?"
         "That's right, Alderman." He let a quaver of
    desperation into his voice. "Business has been off, and we
    can't afford to be picky. We'll take anything across the
    lakes to anywhere."
         Muldrake scratched behind his ear; a crafty
    expression had come into his eyes. "Anything, huh?"
         "Anything." It was hard for Lowe to keep excitement
    from showing; this fool was biting harder than even they'd
    hoped.
         "Even if you got to hide it in port?"
         Fraser sat up even straighter, if that was possible;
    Vecchio leaned back, eyes narrow, listening.
    Surreptitiously he felt his pocket to make sure the tape
    recorder in it was running.
         "What do you have in mind, Alderman?" asked Lowe
    mildly.
         "We-ell ... we all know about the folks who keep
    rolling north out of Salvador and Guatemala and sunny
    Mexico, over the big ditch straight into Texas and
    California. Lots of 'em. And some of them just keep on
    coming due north, heading for that big, pretty, half-empty
    country of yours. Figure there's more room to hide in,
    free medical care, and the snow's not all that bad. The
    wetbacks'll pay a pretty penny to get their backs wet
    again in Lake Michigan, if you know what I mean and I
    think you do."
         "Let me see if I get it," Lowe tested. "You're
    proposing we use our fleet to smuggle illegal immigrants
    into Canada."
         "I got connections to set us up with the passengers.
    Lots of money in it for both of us, and no one's gotta
    know."
         Now Vecchio spoke, and his tone could have soured
    fruit. "Wow, that's really neat, Alderman. Now all we have
    to do is decide whether to take this tape - " he plucked
    the recorder from his pocket - "to the Sun-Times or the
    Trib. You got any preference?"
         Muldrake's eyes gaped and rolled like a squid's. He
    lunged across his desk in Vecchio's direction, scattering
    expensive _tchotchkes_ to all sides and nearly losing an
    eye to a point of his pen set. "Pricks set me up!"
         "Bet your very large ass we did. But to show you what
    nice guys we are, we'll give you one chance to save your
    cushy big-shot gravy-train career ... "
         "Who the hell are you bastards, anyway?" The trapped
    Alderman laboriously pulled himself back off the desk top
    and into his chair.
         "You don't want to know," answered Lowe, his voice
    gone cool and mocking. "But like the man said, you've got
    one chance. Take it, or you're history."
         Muldrake mopped his brow with a silken handkerchief
    and glared flames at the blond. "What the fuck do you
    want?"
         "Information. Information on the abductions from
    Chicago Hope Hospital. Don't try to bullshit us that you
    don't know anything, because you do!"
         After a moment's pause, with tight lips and narrow
    eyes, Muldrake gave it up. "It wasn't me, man. Not my
    idea."
         "Whose was it?" demanded Vecchio.
         "I can't tell you that!"
         In the quavering voice, Constable Fraser heard not
    defiance but fear. "Why are you afraid to tell us?"
         "If you gotta ask, you ain't never gonna know, 'cause
    I sure as shit ain't gonna tell you!"
         Vecchio's turn again. "Would he happen to have some
    connection with the Excelsior Foundation?"
         Again the dull eyes widened. "How the fuck did you
    know?"
         *Bullseye,* thought Vecchio, *good thing this clown's
    as dumb as he looks.* "Look, Muldrake, we're onto the whole
    thing. You might as well give him up, because we're going
    to find those victims anyway. Your help will make it a
    little quicker, and us very grateful."
         The politician shook like a chocolate mousse. "You'll
    find 'em in little pieces - if you're lucky. Eric has 'em."
         Now it was Lowe's turn to go pale. "Who's Eric?" There
    was no answer from the squirming Alderman. "TELL US, YOU
    BASTARD! He has my wife!"
         "Probably HAD your wife," came the grunted reply.
         Lowe was about to launch himself across the desk,
    knife drawn; it took both of his companions to hold him
    back. He got control of himself quickly, and let Fraser
    take over the persuasion. "Listen to me, Alderman," the
    Mountie began calmly, reassuringly, "if you cooperate with
    us, this Eric will not be able to harm you or anyone else
    again." He leaned towards the trembling man, looking
    powerful and benign in his uniform.
         "You gonna kill him?" Muldrake asked hopefully.
         "Leave that to us," growled Yaacov Lowe.
         Muldrake's fearful eyes roamed over all their faces.
    He considered what he saw for a minute, and finally said,
    "It's Eric Pentecost - you know, the boss of Excelsior. HE
    wanted the bitch and her goddamn doctors, not me!"
         "What for?" Lowe demanded, fighting the urge to
    throttle the other.
         Now the eyes dropped. "Eric likes to hurt people. I
    mean REALLY likes it."
         Fraser gasped. "Where has he imprisoned them?"
         "They're still at his place if he hasn't moved 'em -
    or killed 'em."
         Vecchio shoved his notebook at the Alderman. "Write
    down the address."
         They waited tensely as he tried to control his
    trembling hands long enough to write it. "I really don't
    follow," Fraser commented. "How could a prominent
    foundation philanthropist also be, well, a sadist too?"
         Muldrake looked up sourly. "Why the hell not? Isn't it
    all the same shit? Power? Controlling people? Making 'em
    beg?"
         "Y'know, that's a point," observed Vecchio. "But
    haven't you got that address written yet?"
         "Gimme a break! I ain't been this shook up in years!
    Besides, you'll never get there in time."
         "Why not?" the detective asked.
         "Here." Muldrake slid the notebook back. "Go if you
    want. You pricks won't find a damn thing but ashes."
         Lowe's hands were locked into quivering fists. "What
    the hell do you mean, you ... " He let his voice die away.
         Muldrake looked at him coldly. "I got a call from Eric
    a couple hours ago. Wanted me to be there today at noon on
    the dot." A shudder wiggled his bulk. "For a burning."
         "A WHAT?" cried Fraser; only he of the three could
    form words.
         "He's had 'em before. I only went to one, a few years
    back; some bitch who'd two-timed one of the Pharaohs, was
    gonna have some other scumbag's baby." He shuddered again.
    "I ain't never heard anyone scream like that before or
    since!"
         Vecchio mused, "Something tells me when we get this
    guy, we'll close a lot of open cases."
         "Noon, you say?" Lowe checked his watch. "It's eleven
    thirty-two now!"
         "That's right, asshole. And Eric's house is more'n an
    hour from here, forty-five minutes if you run all the
    lights." Muldrake grinned at them, showing his teeth like
    a truculent animal. "Good luck, you pricks. They're gonna
    burn."
    
    TO BE CONTINUED
    **NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: IX**
    
         The Pharaohs gathered again before the prison cell.
    They carried readied pistols and coils of rope, and the
    captives knew that their time had come. Ruth was held at bay
    in the back of the cell as her companions were brought out.
    Their hands were tied behind their backs and, without
    explanation, they were led away down the corridor. No words
    were exchanged this time; they had already said goodbye, and
    there was no reason to amuse the cruel Pentecost any
    further. The doctors bade their patient and friend farewell
    with their eyes, and left her weeping quietly behind.
         Geiger and Shutt were mildly surprised to be led
    upstairs and outside. The sun rode high and warm over the
    gorgeous expanse of Pentecost's estate, and for a moment
    hope almost made sense.
         But then they turned the corner, going around the back
    of the house, and saw it. The thick wooden stake jutted up
    seven feet out of a large, carefully arranged pile of wood.
    Shutt stopped in his tracks, ignoring the prodding of his
    guards. "Jeffrey," he gasped, "that's a pyre."
         The other also stopped dead. "God in Heaven." Geiger
    went white to the lips; for the first time throughout the
    entire ordeal, he was afraid.
    
         "Are you ready, Ruth?"
         Ruth looked up and through the bars of her prison at
    Eric Pentecost and his two Pharaoh bodyguards. "To die?"
         "Not yet," he replied with a sinister smile. "But come
    with me; I have something for you to see."
         She stiffened. "What have you done with them?"
         "Clever girl; of course that's what I have for you to
    see. Now come along." Pentecost himself entered the cell to
    pull his prisoner to her feet, tie her hands, and lead her
    out.
         As he brought her outside, Ruth winced at the glare of
    the sun and came close to stumbling on her bare feet as she
    was hustled along, but she somehow kept her head high -
    until she saw what awaited behind the house. At the sight of
    the pyre, the surrounding thugs, and the two familiar
    figures bound back to back against the stake, she let out a
    cry of despair as her strength gave way. If Pentecost had
    not caught her, she would have hit the earth.
         The enemy drew her close in an unforgiving grip, his
    fingers squeezing her flesh white, his erection jabbing hard
    into her back. "What do you think, dear lady: Have I chosen
    a suitable end for them? Will it get them to scream, to
    plead for mercy, to whimper like the debased wretches they
    are? I'll soon find out ... and so will you." He seized her
    chin, turned her head around hard to let his eyes flash into
    hers. "Even the plainest face looks beautiful in the light
    of a burning man."
         "In the name of God," she pleaded, "in the name of your
    cause, of anything you hold sacred, I beg of you, don't do
    this!"
         "Anything I hold sacred?" His grin widened. "One thing
    I hold especially sacred is my pleasure. It includes this."
         Tears poured down her cheeks. "It was I who offended
    you; why torture them?"
         "Interesting point. But let me extend an offer. Light
    the fire, and I might let you live."
         Watching from the stake, the doomed men saw and heard
    everything. Geiger's voice tore through like lightning - "Do
    it, Ruth! Do it and save yourself!"
         "No, never!" she cried back.
         On the other side of the stake, Shutt spoke quietly,
    with the serenity of the condemned. "I knew she'd say that,
    Jeffrey."
         "So did I," his friend admitted with a rueful half-
    smile. "Worth a try, though."
         Pentecost pushed the woman away, leaving her to stagger
    and regain precarious balance by herself, as he approached
    the physicians. "You're taking this with remarkable good
    humor," he commented, his tone amused. "No doubt it's that
    celebrated surgeons' bravado, your famous composure in the
    face of death. Except that until now it's always been the
    face of some patient's death - this time it's your own!"
         No longer afraid, Geiger even sneered back. "What can I
    say? It's hard to be frightened of a man who hides behind
    heaps of money and hordes of thugs, hurting innocent people
    because he's got no other way to get his rocks off."
         The enemy's voice oozed malice. "Brave words now, Dr.
    Geiger. But it'll be riveting to hear you in a few minutes,
    as your skin turns crisp, your features shrivel, and the
    flesh comes loose from your bones ... " Slowly, easily he
    ambled around the pyre to confront the other doctor, and
    grinned with satisfaction as Shutt failed to meet his eyes.
    "Well, now here's an honest man, willing to admit he's
    afraid to perish in inconceivable agony. Not that it's
    within your specialty, Dr. Shutt, but I'll wager you've seen
    your share of burn victims. Horrible to hear and to look at,
    aren't they?"
         "Please," Shutt implored softly, "just get it over
    with."
         "What's this? The man is in a hurry to roast? Very
    well, I'll get right on it! First, though, you should know
    that once it's all over, I'll have the charred remains
    dumped in that alley behind your hospital. Identification
    shouldn't take too long. I wonder if they'll let your wife
    have a last look at the blackened, twisted husk, so she'll
    truly realize how the man she loved died ... " Pentecost's
    smile stretched when he saw a tear flowing down his
    prisoner's face. "Not terribly manly, Shutt. By the way, are
    you planning to perish screaming her name?"
         "Mr. Pentecost!" He whirled to Ruth's shout. "Let me
    make an offer!"
         Looking proudly and coldly into the anguished eyes,
    Pentecost rumbled, "An offer? My poor wretched dear, what
    could you possibly have to offer?"
         "Listen: You wanted me lobotomized, stripped of higher
    mental functions, so you could enslave me, right?"
         "Yes ... "
         "How would you like to have me complete with my higher
    mental functions?"
         The steel-gray eyes widened. "You're VOLUNTEERING for
    servitude?" His demonic smile returned. "An appealing idea;
    not only could I bend your talent to my purposes, I'd have
    the pleasure of a thinking being's tears, not a beast's. But
    even for that price, I can't let these men live, not now."
         "I figured as much. No, all I ask is a less cruel death
    for them. Something swift and painless."
         Now he was genuinely astonished - as were the prisoners
    on the pyre. "And for that alone, you are willing to obey me
    without question, with no hope of release?"
         "Yes."
         He pursed his thin lips. "But can I trust you to keep
    that pledge? I'll have no hostages to compel you once
    they're dead."
         "You have my word; there's nothing else I can give."
         Now the lips drew slowly back. "And if you break that
    word, there's always the whip to remind you."
         There came another cry from Geiger at the stake - "No,
    Ruth! I'd rather burn!"
         His voice drowned out the murmur of his friend and
    colleague. "Poor Ruth, is sparing us the pain worth it?"
         But Pentecost walked around the bound woman once,
    peering at her oddly. There was no triumph in his eyes, not
    now. "Mrs. Lowe," he said finally, "I know you cherish
    freedom more than almost anything. Tell me: What are these
    men to you?"
         She looked at them. "Rescuers, defenders, brother Jews,
    and human beings made in the image of God."
         "Is that all?"
         "Isn't that enough?"
         The malevolent smile slowly crawled back across his
    features. "No, it's not. There must be something else
    involved. You cannot save their lives, yet you'll give all -
    why?"
         "Must I say?"
         His hand closed tightly on the collar of her gown.
    "Yes, you must!" he hissed.
         She gulped as she met the blazing eyes. "When you
    ordered Aaron and Jeffrey to maim me, THEY tried to give all
    so I wouldn't suffer, even though they couldn't save my
    life. I owe them no less."
         "Interesting. But wouldn't the ruin of your mind have
    been a worse fate than any death?"
         "No, no! Not this death. It's the most terrible end I
    can imagine, and I can't leave them to it."
         The rage had leached out of him, and the sparkle of
    amusement was returning. "I wonder why. Perhaps some racialmemory of
    _autos-da-fe_, fiery pogroms, crematoria?" 
         "What does it matter?" She kept pleading. "Don't burn 
    them, I implore you - do as you will with me instead!"
         Pentecost quietly began to laugh, a musical, diabolical
    sound. "The most terrible end you can imagine, you say? I've
    made my decision." He signaled his Pharaoh guards, and in
    that instant Ruth knew her grisly fate before he pronounced
    it. "Tie her to the stake."
    
    TO BE CONTINUED 
    
    **NO MEDICINE BUT HOPE: X**
    
         Vecchio's knuckles were white on the wheel, his
    voice high and brittle. "Damn it, Lowe, it's twelve-ten
    already, we didn't make it in time! At least let's try to
    get a warrant so the bust can be good - "
         "She lives," the young veteran replied, in a voice
    all the more grim for its softness, "they live; I know
    it. Keep driving." With one hand he swept off his
    gentlemanly hat; with the other he reached under the seat
    to bring out his black beret. Donning the military
    headgear over his _kippah_, he then dropped a hand to the
    hilt of his knife. Behind him, also sensing action to
    come, Fraser's wolf drew back his lips to let fangs
    shine.
         "This is crazy," the detective muttered. "We're on
    our way to bust a superrich philanthropist for
    kidnapping, attempted murder, and God only knows what
    else - without a warrant!"
         "Probable cause, Ray," the Mountie reminded him.
         "Yeah, yeah. I can tell you, we'll have a lot of fun
    when we call for backup."
         "You're right," said Fraser. A moment later, he followed
    with "Give me your cell-phone."
         "Huh? What for?"
         "I'm calling the Tribune and a television station,
    to tell them there's been a breakthrough in the Chicago
    Hope abductions, and you'll be making an arrest at this
    address. The department should be less likely to stall
    its response once reporters are on the scene, no matter
    how powerful the suspect is."
         "Constable Fraser," said Lowe with a grin, "I like your
    style. It's almost as devious as mine."
         Fraser looked bewildered for a moment, but Vecchio
    grinned too. "Thank the man, Benny. Coming from him, that's
    a hell of a compliment."
    
         Eric Pentecost looked appreciatively at his goons'
    work. "Is everyone ready?" he asked jovially while walking
    around the pyre where three people were now bound, a woman
    trembling and weeping between two men, the ropes biting hard
    into their pinioned flesh. "I'll wager none of you expected
    to die quite like this."
         His captives ignored him, speaking only among
    themselves. "Why didn't you start the fire when you had the
    chance, Ruth?" Aaron Shutt asked quietly.
         "Why didn't you slice up my brain when you had the
    chance, Aaron?" was the sobbed answer.
         Jeffrey Geiger, gallant to the end, managed a chuckle.
    "She's got us both there, Aaron." He paused to draw a deep
    breath - a sigh of surrender. "It's over; let's not blame
    each other. Ruth, please feel free to pray for me, too."
         "And me," added the other.
         "You honor me," she answered gravely. Fighting the
    tears, she began: "_Alenu l'shabeach l'adon hakol ... _"
         Pentecost nodded in satisfaction and looked at his
    watch. "Soon enough that Jew gibberish will change into
    shrieking. We're late, but at least the sun is still at
    zenith. Now for my favorite use of environmentally sound
    solar energy ... " Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a
    large magnifying glass and held it high. "Who wants to burn
    the Jews?"
         From the Pharaohs came an appalling, obscenely gleeful
    chant: "Burn 'em! Burn the Jews!"
         "Your wish is my command," Pentecost rejoined, making a
    brief, mocking bow. Still brandishing the lens, he
    approached the pyre, walking with cruel slowness. The huge
    priapic bulge of his erection threw off his stride, and
    his lips dripped wetly with excitement. Geiger recoiled
    from the repulsive sight, grateful that his companions
    were at the wrong angles to see it, and found himself idly
    wondering when their tormentor would reach climax: when
    the pyre caught under a focused sunbeam, when the flames
    touched the pinned captives, or when death silenced their
    cries at last.
         There was an ear-bruising crack, a shriek of 
    shattering glass, a scream as the fragments of his 
    splintered lens showered over Pentecost. The Pharaohs 
    were suddenly spinning in all directions at once, screeching 
    and glancing about like panicked chickens, some trying to 
    claw their own guns out, as three armed men strode from the
    cover of a stand of pines. The leader, in the brown
    service uniform of the RCMP, bore the hunting rifle that
    had broken the burning-glass. Behind him came a snarling
    wolf; to either side, another armed man. The one at his
    left showed a 9-mm handgun and a badge, commanding,
    "Police; freeze!" The man on the right was silent, letting
    the sight of his double-barrelled shotgun do the talking.
         Shutt blinked, unsure that he did indeed see them,
    but it was no illusion - hope was walking out of the
    woods, armed and fearless. In relief and joy Geiger
    shouted, "Impeccable timing, whoever you are!"
         Ruth knew who one of them was. Now her tears were
    tears of gratitude, of comfort and trust. "Yaacov ... oh,
    Yaacov," she sobbed, "_Baruch Hashem_ ... you came."
         In fury Pentecost flung away the splintered grip of
    the glass and struck crystalline fragments from his hair
    and face, roaring, "Shoot them down, you stupid apes!
    There's only three of them, a dozen of you - what are your
    guns for? KILL THEM!"
         "I got a better idea," Vecchio said, holding his
    badge like a talisman. "How about everyone puts his hands
    on his head and kneels down real slowly, so no one has to
    get hurt."
         Beside him the Mountie nodded. "I concur. If you will
    also please relinquish any illegal firearms - "
         One of the Pharaohs rammed a hand into his jacket; it
    emerged on the grip of a gleaming Glock-17. As the pistol
    came up, the shotgun arced left and roared double-ought
    buckshot, blasting the youth's chest into crimson ruin.
    Lowe almost smiled as he announced, "Next!"
         Another goon obediently reached toward his waist to
    draw a .357 Magnum. The pistol didn't even clear the
    holster before the top of his head came off in a cloud of
    bone shards and pink spray.
         Geiger whistled his appreciation. "Well, Aaron,
    there's not a thing we can do for those two."
         "Seriously," Shutt agreed softly, grateful he wasn't
    squeamish.
         Now Lowe did smile. "'Scuse me a second while I
    reload. There's plenty for everyone." Fraser warily
    covered him with the rifle as Lowe efficiently broke open
    his weapon, tossed the spent shells, thrust two more home.
    Snapping the shotgun closed, he leveled it again, the
    muzzle roaming among random Pharaohs. "Thanks for waiting.
    Anyone else?" Silence.
         "Okay, now let's be reasonable," commanded Vecchio,
    his own voice very reasonable indeed. "We'll try again. All
    surviving Chicago street scum will now put their hands on
    their heads and kneel down. Slowly." Their eyes smoldered,
    and some actually showed their teeth like beasts at bay,
    but all ten living Pharaohs slowly, carefully, resentfully
    did as they were told. Their other guns emerged slowly,
    not brandished in fists but pinched gingerly between thumb
    and forefinger, and dropped to the turf to be collected by
    Fraser.
         And now the young veteran triumphantly met
    Pentecost's blazing, impotent eyes. "You're all out of
    _kamikaze_, Mr. Pentecost. I guess I'll just have to set
    these people free." There was a fearsome serenity in his
    face as he raised his weapon, leveled it at Pentecost's
    head. "But first I want one good reason not to blow your
    sick sadistic head off."
         "A Murder One charge?" Vecchio offered.
         Upon the pyre, Geiger grunted, "Hey, don't look at us!"
         Fraser looked at his companion with genuine alarm, but
    when he spoke, it was with calm and gravity. "Choose life,
    Yaacov."
         Lowe's gaze did not move from the enemy's face.
    "Maintain the right, Constable," he answered with equal
    gravity.
         And a smile, cool and baleful, bloomed on Pentecost's
    thin lips. "You won't shoot me, Mr. Lowe - it is Mr. Lowe,
    isn't it?"
         "Yes, it's Mr. Yaacov Lowe, late of the US Army. And why
    won't I shoot you, you devil?"
         He sniggered. "Because it would be too quick. After how
    I made them - made HER - suffer, how could you do less to me?
    Kill me in a single instant, in a blast of lead, without
    torture? I know when I'm looking into a mirror; you're no
    more capable of mercy than I."
         A woman's voice spoke from the stake. "Go ahead and
    prove him wrong, Yaacov."
         "You want me to shoot him, dearest?" Lowe's finger
    tensed on one trigger.
         "No. Spare him, my love," came Ruth's answer. "Let him
    come to trial. Let his other atrocities come to light, and
    let his empire be brought down!"
         Lowe stepped back, lowered the gun. "No, Ruth, he's
    right. No mercy. But you'll still have your wish; I won't
    give him a quick death." He addressed Vecchio. "He's all
    yours, Detective."
         Pentecost chuckled, an infuriating sound. "We are the
    same man, you and I," he sneered at Lowe. "Each of us iswilling to crush
    anything standing between himself and his desire. For you it's a woman,
    for me a vision of society."
         Ruth shook her head. "Mr. Pentecost, your vision isn't
    compatible with humanity."
         He shrugged. "Then so much for humanity - let it
    perish!" 
         Vecchio was looking to all sides at the kneeling 
    Pharaohs. "You got handcuffs, Fraser?"
         "Sorry, I don't."
         "Great. I got one lousy pair. Not to mention limited room
    in the car." He put his badge away and took out his telephone.
    "It's backup or bust now ... "
         A car engine growled in the middle distance, and soon a
    beat-up station wagon eased to a halt a few hundred feet away.
    Two men tumbled out and came pounding across the grounds, at
    the same time fumbling with tape recorder and camera. No
    sooner were they out than a van emblazoned with a TV news logo
    was pulling up next to their car, and reporter, producer, and
    cameraman were hitting the ground running. Their shouts of
    astonishment came drifting over the lawn: "What the hell - ?"
    "Holy shit!" "That can't be Eric Pentecost!"
         Vecchio rolled his eyes to the heavens. "Thank you, God!"
    Quickly he dialed with a thumb and barked into the phone.
    "It's Vecchio. Lieutenant, we need backup right now and we
    need it bad! Some civilian, the Mountie, his pet wolf, and I
    are covering ten gang members and a rich homicidal maniac all
    by ourselves! Yeah, we found the kidnap victims - just in
    time. Damn it, Welsh, don't give me excuses; this place is
    already crawling with reporters! Yeah, really! Good; get 'em
    here yesterday." He snapped the phone shut. "Whew. Well, now
    we wait."
         "Now for the reason we came!" Lowe announced as he
    climbed the pyre, shotgun in one hand, knife in the other.
    First he cut through the ropes binding Geiger. "Are you all
    right, Doctor -?"
         "Geiger. I've never been so happy that one of my patients
    has visitors."
         "My pleasure, Dr. Geiger. There; you're free." Lowe moved
    on to the second man. "You must be Dr. Shutt," he said as he
    slashed the cords.
         "Yes. Thank you for saving our lives."
         "Don't mention it. I can't remember when I had this good
    a time!" With the men released, Lowe now found himself face to
    face with the wife Pentecost had stolen. He paused a moment,
    almost overcome, holding back tears. "_Shalom_, Ruth."
         "_Baruch atah Adonoy, Elohenu melech haolam, sheasa lanu
    nes b'makom hazeh_," she recited softly.
         "_Amen_." All at once he turned and shouted to the press
    photographer. "Hey, you with the camera! Look alive - here's
    your Pulitzer picture!" Still holding his gun, Lowe put his
    knife to Ruth's bonds. As he cut through, suddenly he pressed
    his mouth to hers. Camera clicked and minicam whirred,
    immortalizing the kiss, and almost everyone raised a cheer of
    acclaim; even some of the Pharaohs managed a guttural, vulgar
    hurrah. Pentecost was silent, and no one noticed him at all.
         As the fighting-man carefully escorted his wife down from
    the pyre, a television journalist thrust her microphone under
    Shutt's nose. She spat her words rapidly: "Doctor, can you
    tell us who's responsible for this bizarre spectacle?"
         The neurosurgeon drew away a step, taken aback. After a
    moment, he turned to look at the enemy, now stewing impotently
    in Ray Vecchio's handcuffs. Shutt waved a hand at him in a
    grand gesture and announced, "Ladies and gentlemen of the
    media, I give you Mr. Eric Pentecost: philanthropist, crusader
    for social justice, and bloodthirsty psycho!" He lowered his
    hand, glared ice at his erstwhile torturer. "And you're
    welcome to him."
    
         "God, it's good to have you back safe and sound,"
    declared Phillip Watters to his colleagues as they cruised
    down a corridor towards Chicago Hope's critical care unit.
         "You can imagine how we feel," Jeffrey Geiger replied.
         Watters smiled. "And Camille too, I'll bet." He glanced
    at his second companion.
         "Yes." Aaron Shutt's voice was quiet, as if far away.
    He'd never be able to describe last night: the woman he loved
    and himself locked in each other's arms all night, holding on
    as if for life itself, their hearts pounding together like the
    surf. "Good to be home," was all he could say.
         Watters became pensive to match him. "There could be
    reason for concern about your emotional state after what
    you've been through. Are you sure neither of you wants to
    speak to Dr. Kadalski in Psychiatry?"
         "Please, Phillip!" Shutt groaned.
         Geiger snorted. "I'd almost rather be back at Pentecost's
    stake!"
         "Almost," said Watters with a wry grin. The others
    nodded, and with that, they arrived.
         "_Shabbat shalom_, gentlemen!" From a chair beside his
    wife's bed, Yaacov Lowe noticed them first and shouted greeting. 
         Alan Birch looked up from where he lay in the bed beside 
    Ruth's. "Welcome to the Eric Pentecost Commemorative Gunshot 
    Wound Ward," he said with a smile. "Ruth suggested the name."
         "I like it," Shutt commented. He sniffed the air. "It
    smells like my mother's kitchen in here."
         "The Sabbath is the Sabbath, whether you spend it at home
    or camped in a hospital room," Lowe explained. He waved a hand
    at the sacks of food piled near the window. "Feel free; I
    picked up lots. Constable Fraser and Detective Vecchio are
    coming by later for lunch."
         "We're sorry you have to spend your holy day here, but
    Dr. Geiger thought it best Mrs. Lowe remain at least twenty-
    four hours for evaluation." Watters smiled sympathetically at
    the woman. "You've had quite an ordeal."
         Ruth smiled back. "Oh, I don't mind in the least. It's
    not the first Sabbath I've spent in a hospital; I did give
    birth to two children." She sighed. "Pity they're not here
    with us."
         Her husband took her hand, gave it a squeeze. "That's the
    only thing keeping this from being the best _Shabbat_ I ever
    had!" 
         There was affection and a touch of envy in Birch's eyes
    as he looked at the couple. "And I'm glad for the company.
    Ruth and Yaacov have told me everything." He looked toward the
    physicians he served. "We've got to put in our next brochure
    that Chicago Hope has the most courageous surgeons in the
    metropolitan area."
         "And a lawyer who helped save their lives." Suddenly all
    eyes were on Lowe, looking to him to explain. He gladly did.
    "You figured out the Excelsior Foundation connection. If we
    hadn't had that to fling in that corrupt scum Muldrake's
    face, he'd have stonewalled a lot longer ... and we'd never
    have arrived in time."
         Birch reddened and quickly said, "No different from what
    Ruth did."
         "Me? What did I do besides drag everyone into this?" 
         The attorney smiled at her, then addressed her husband.
    "Didn't you say the burning was to have been at noon?" 
         "That's what Muldrake said."
         "Do you remember what time you got there?"
         "About twelve-twenty."
         "Far too late, if Pentecost had stuck to his schedule.
    What happened to throw him off?" He looked to the doctors.
    
         Shutt was the first to realize it. "Ruth kept him talking!" 
         The same light came on in Geiger's face. "Bastard couldn't
    pass up the chance to make her crawl - thank God."
         The neurosurgeon nodded. "It's appropriate that he was
    brought down because of his own cruelty."
         "Very appropriate." Again Geiger looked to Birch. "So
    you're right, Alan ... but we still owe you."
         Still pink, Birch shook his head. "If not for the
    medical staff of this hospital, I'd be in a drawer in the
    morgue now."
         Watters held up a hand. "As chief of staff, let me
    settle this. Alan, as of this time you and the medical staff
    are officially even. Now is everyone satisfied?"
         "Not quite." Everyone turned toward the feminine voice
    at the door, and saw Camille Shutt enter. She beamed a smile
    at all of them, though adding a little extra light when her
    eyes met her husband's. He glowed back, and let her speak.
    "The story's all over the hospital, and some people seem to
    feel a little envious. I overheard Daniel Nyland say he
    wonders how long he'll have to work here to get adventure
    privileges."
         "Oh, what a shame," Geiger grunted derisively. "And
    here I thought we had one resident with a brain."
         "Let's give him the benefit of the doubt," Ruth
    suggested. "Maybe he accepts Chesterton's definition: 'An
    adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered.'" She
    paused for an unexpected chuckle. "Proof positive that no
    one ever tried to burn Chesterton alive." Once everyone
    else's laughter had ended, she raised a new question.
    "Aaron, Jeffrey, saying goodbye is going to be hard, but
    still: When can we go home?"
         Geiger spoke for both. "If you remain stable through
    tomorrow morning, possibly as early as Monday."
         "And we probably won't see you again until Pentecost's
    trial," Shutt observed. "We'll miss you."
         "It'll be mutual," she answered. "But no doubt you'll
    have plenty to keep you busy - as will I."
         "You mean your children," said Camille.
         "Them, and my book. I must get my agent to redouble
    his efforts - I want that sucker in print!"
         Everyone but Yaacov Lowe looked at her in
    astonishment. "Ruth," said Shutt, "that manuscript almost
    got you killed - or worse. I should think you'd want to
    forget you ever wrote it!"
         But she was grinning. "That manuscript was enough of a
    threat to Eric Pentecost to cause him to gamble his whole
    public-policy empire, and his dreadful secret, on my death.
    If I have written so persuasive a defense of what I believe, 
    then I owe it to the world to see it through! Who knows how 
    much good my book will do, if it can frighten a _rasha_, an 
    evil man, like him?"
         And Geiger smiled in admiration. "He was right about
    your ambition, you know that?"
         "Indeed he was." She met and matched the smile. "Allow
    me one more quotation, gentlemen, this from the immortal
    works of Steve Winwood: 'And the thing that you're hearing
    is only the sound of the low spark of high-heeled boys'!"
    
    THE END
    
    NOTES
    
    Alenu l'shabeach l'adon hakol - First line of the Alenu
    prayer. "It is our duty to praise the Lord of all."
    
    Baruch atah Adonoy ... - "Blessed are you, Lord our God,
    king of the universe, Who made a miracle for us in this
    place." Blessing recited upon escape or rescue from
    danger.
    
    Shabbat shalom - the standard Sabbath greeting.
    

* * *


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